

* j •» * • *i ' ' . * * . ’■, * , ’ . \ * , 1 ■ * ; * J 






i > | 

: 

•'* " ' . , 




- 


* * • - f » i 

• « • * i 


• « a l. at. k t t a a it t * 1 a « f k • a -a 

* f • t ’ • • » f , * ••*«•>>•! 

I * ,» I »« » 4 -4 I • • • * it * 1 • a « a a k ^ * a • 

>:< v‘.;- ■: ‘ w-.• . . 

*.V‘a* * ,v.v • 

• • 4 a a •»»•••*> I • » a • * « ' > ‘ • 

» ( • • *•#«•»%••* ♦ »••%•*» < 

• • *• •• » » * 4 •< 4 . 4 a 4 , « a. 4 4 

i • ' • , l • t I a a *•».'« . 

* ■ ... • 4 a > a « a • 

I * « - • **f # I » >•♦•*»* / - * * • yr ■ 

J . 1 ••• * 4;» • | , t * * I » ♦ * • • | t% 

-414 »»t»i * a k » » k , • 

»..« •»# I ’ I , *•*,#*■» 

•••*•• at I I a | . a . | a | > a 

« • a t ..»« I -k • a a . a a k-k ■ » I 

a . a , • , I a t • • t 

*T't • * ' *.•.*, * . ♦ , * 

* ;«;* *•.;»*#*4 .V-* .• ,-v »\\% 

' Ita.ta >l« t • • ta.aa %j 

aa. t • » a # . | a , . 4 > I • 

i > • .1 a - > « # a • • • # . l « 

• 4 * • a a a I a # ! . ■> « , 

a * * « at. at - at . . a I k > ♦* 

tl«kal|aill*«kat kk a t . 

• t.t.f.i f u< rf a r I 

• » »• * * • • a -a « t 4 - 4- k a a» * • * j. 

t • ■ t « ^ I a ■ 1 I > ' t 4 I a 

• • 4 » a ■ • ■ • - l i 4 a I < a f ■ - a t a.T 

» » • • > • t a * t » • * * • * * « • » 

aa .t. a • i a a ...a- at • * ... 

I I -a 4 t- k l-t. I t- I • 4 M 

•»»♦•»<• • . I a • f I « . k tJ. 

' .» » a t - V 4 a a a . 4 4 < » . 4. 

• < • 4 • * ill- • I > t t > t > • t| 

> • • a * a a • a a I . J. 

7 .It :t | I III' a a 4 a aa. 

I * • a I a k 4 a « a 4 - a I • a t 4 a 3. 

' ' ■ '..a',--. a* ‘a 

• 4- aa 4 * k k a a a k t V V 

a I a a IM . t l • |l .41% a a •.alt* 

. a 4 . . I . ...a a. 4»»— t 4 a V. 

t a * »k a • a • • a . 4 a . . 4 - 1 « 

k a - a a * • • a « t a ' • a . . I 

• a a 4 a .-.a# a a a * a • a 4 k- — »■ *> - 4 t - 44 • 

> •,a a . I a. 4 J a a I • I a at .4 

4 4 • t a t#a a•. 4-4 i % 4 » a a a i •.*« a -t at ' 

■ a * t a,.* • t a 4 a * aa t 4 a I 

• a *1 • • • ■ t ■ • i a -ttr* > a 4 i t «i 

a a 4 . > ..41.,,...,. 

. 4 > a a a a t • 4- ~4 »4-4 4 a-t t I a J 

a a a a a • * 1 a a * * * • * 4 


• » • ■ 

s v.%* 
• » ■ 1 










* 


■ 



5 wV St .1 

J; V* • T i* 

' . a ~mL\ 


~1 J f ft ' ^ J / -tiri • V* 'J 




■ 




i.; ■ t: & 

f v 1 -, >ap» 

‘ \ 


5 *,♦. 4; t 4 

fc ’.y >*...$ ..x ■* ..*» * v ‘ - r * 

*/■> »i •»/•* 


• 

• * 
• ’ * • • • v 


i • V* 



/ » «a » • a ’ » f * » »• * ■ » 1 ' » * ’ » ' ” » ' » ' • 

4 * -. t * , • r • - • * * 

4 •• ' * • # < • 

1 - 4 — I f ~ I • > ' • « ► • * *■'«*• * • » 

4- 4 • * * * • * * « » • ! » • • • * » 


I'J! 




. » < *-4 


* » 


< a'-a-a-Ja.-l .a 

a a 4- t • I 


k. k > *. *■ » 

• • • • .* 


a a a - 4- 4 f 

* * * • . a 

» » • • - a - 4 


• • ♦ • t 

f * - ' • . 


r • \ % ♦ * t 

V -4 « •• I 


| . . « l 4 • ’* • • • * ♦ *■«*• ' I •**•-♦'•«•• * » • • # H i • » * * 

\ *. % . . . # , . . • 1 - f • « * - f * • * c> • 1 ■> • - • - ♦ • r • • - ♦ • • ♦ * ' 

• a « . . « tl ‘V « « (I * -a » • . I *1 « * • • » I 4 • • « I I ^ » # ■♦ * f • * 

» . k . • I • . • a- «- # • » aa < • 4 • I. <* b I « • #14 ** ••*•* «-J“ -* 

• i • i • *• • « . i. . .. f » i 4 *• * • -t • * • ♦ • 4 • t ’ * . • 

4 « # .... -k^,.*. •• • V • * • * ' .# .*# * f » 

• ..a. . f' tf l .«,»! • - . * # . t r ' f • -• • • ^ • 4 « ♦ • • 4 • t .* < * .♦ • • .* . , 


4 i. a -4 . * ( l .) • . . 4 a . a a . a ■ . . a , • I 

• ^ # .k . . 4 a • * >«a %rl o-fi * • I * 'f- ' -f f . « • «' < 

‘ 

■ 


a 4- ' » 


. i . ... | -t 

i * . • * a 

f « ' ' 


* a’ 


■ 

- • * * * • « ' • • * 1 •:*•**• 


a « 4 * ' • . ' a ■ , 4 4 | 1 ,a • a t • « k f 

a ti> a a . V. a a - A- a 

a .... a a 

- « . • ‘ a « I a a a , a a . I. 

t • • a ,• r . . a a a ... 

, • * a- ^ - a t * * a ^ J,‘t 

.• a • a-> < I > - a - a V 

ri a a t I I a • « » t . * •- • •• a . * • —* • a 

, . a a l l -.a . a at 


(la* > . * . a a av-ataa-- 

(..a,,.,. • a * 4. 4- 4- 4 a a t a 4 

. a , . , 4 . a a . a . a >• • . I . - 

, , a I • (.1 t * • * * *: 

. a a t a k I a • at# 4 a a * • 

a a a « a a - a. a a»4 4.-- I *• • a a 

a a a a a . • I a , a . • ;*t» •« • 

4 ,4.4 * I a . * * * aa k 


a a ■ 4 I 4 a a | a • » ' 

a a a 4 • • 4 4 a a . i* 

a al a a«« ta*aa-i 

a - -a- a a -V - - 4 * • ' • *■ 

I • -4 - a - •—4 4 a , a > a 

*—aa- Maa ■- i . - - • 

a aa 4. a a I . -I ' I k 
a a—a - k a » 4 ‘ I •- • 

> 4 a 4 4 4 4 -► *- * • 

I— a--4 k-a | a ~J T ■ » > 

* (• « -4 • > • 4 - ■ a a • i 

a-4-* 4 a *• -a * * * - k 


.-t«4 4a» 'l-. ,|<i..taa.4k I I •••-*•*' 1 

a a aa a a ai -*k l-af-a -4a a *-4- » • t * * F *' 

at ,a - l • ta-aa a, -a a • I k a-* i*a 4a > a a • 

- 

. 4 a » • . I . a a < I 4».» -a a a t- « I 1 - — • • • 4-4 I • • a . 

4# . a ta ■ a a • - a .4 . • • • '• • *1 ...... a . a a 4 . • 




I * * « * • • • I It* ' 4 4 * 

' . •» « - # * 1 T *. - > * I ♦ • • 

«.%»•»». 4 , 4 + 

***< » 

4 -i * - t ••• • • • - • • -rf 

. • • % • - 4 • » # 4 * 

4 • * I **• .V # -% • 


• t ^ • 

4. » * 'A •• 

4---# -*• 


4, t - « •> • • • • ' < • ^ •* 1 1 * 

» 4 t . • • . • t • . • . 4 y 

. I •«* • 1 *'* » * • t * ^ f * ' * 4 . 



























CV V * ' * o / 



0 o 



J -/ 

yfj 





'Pju V 


iS* ' ^ o N ® % 






\ • 

rVJ 




A 








V? 

s. 0 °<, 






,0o 


* V » » 4 ^ 





























0 N 0 *, ’% 

~s^\w _ * 






















S * « r 


> 


/V s * 


n! y>> 


\ 

o <y 


* .A 


A \ 

r\ ^ 


* 

k 

* <f 






^ VJ 

V ^ 


\ *<> y> *•■%* ^ O V 

✓ %■. j > 

■Kjis 






0 * 






V 1 B 































































\ 











































































































































I 




























THE GREAT HUNGER 




COMMENTS ON THE NOVELS OF 

JOHAN BOJER 


THE GREAT HUNGER 

“It is the first work of fiction I have ever reviewed; and I come to it with a mind 
hopelessly untrammelled, and a predisposition of Interest in its theme. What is it we are 
al! after in life? Desire to reach, that is the great hunger. The story of Peer Holm is the 
pilgrimage of a man half-consciously travelling the long road to the Ultima Thule of his 
soul; passing unsatisfied the goals of knowledge, of power, of love, all the milestones of a 
full life and coming very late, very broken, but unconquered, to a realization at the last. 
This book could only have been written by a Scandinavian. It has the stark realistic spir¬ 
ituality characteristic of a race with special depths of darkness to contend with, and its 
own northern sunlight and beauty. A very deep love of nature colors and freshens the 
work of this writer, and gives it that—I would not say national, but rather local—atmos¬ 
phere and flavor which is the background of true art. The translation is exceptionally 
able, and one would think that but little of the atmosphere has leaked away. The story 
told, fine and pathetic, is common enough in this world of strenuous endeavor, accom¬ 
plishment, and decline. Peer Holm, at the lowest ebb of his worldly fortunes, finds satis¬ 
faction for his long hunger. A very fine work, both in execution and in meaning.”— John 
Galsworthy in the London Nation. 

THE POWER OF A LIE 

“This is a great book. I can have no hesitation whatever in saying that. Rarely in 
reading a modern novel have I felt so strong a sense of reality and so deep an impression of 
motive. It would be difficult to praise too highly the power and the reticence of this story. 
When I compare it with other Norwegian novels, even the best and by the best-known 
writers, I feel that it transcends them in its high seriousness, and in the almost relentless 
strength with which its dominant idea is carried through. Its atmosphere is often wonder¬ 
ful, sometimes startling, and its structure is without any fault that has betrayed itself to 
me. 

“ It does not surprise me to hear that the Academy of France has lately crowned Tee 
Power op a Hie, for both its morality and its excelling power are of the kind which at 
the present moment appeal most strongly to the French mind. The reader will find that 
this book stirs and touches him, and makes him think.”— Sir Hall Caine. 

THE FACE OF THE WORLD 

"A big ironic book, finely conceived and very finely executed."— James Branch 
Cabell, in the New York Sun. 

“A fine book, moist with life, which stands well out of the surrounding banalities. 
You will be depriving yourself of a rare pleasure if you do not read it.”— The Baltimore 
Sun. 

TREACHEROUS GROUND 

_ “One of the spring novels which will probably be much read and discussed is Johan 
Bojer’s Treacherous' Ground. The Bojer boom began in this country with the publica¬ 
tion of Thb Great Hunger, a rather curious story of Norway related in a caressing mono¬ 
tone. With the publication of Treacherous Ground the estimate of Bojer will, I think, 
gain a notch or bo, and in the parlance of the markets, remain firm. It is the most consid¬ 
erable, the most intelligently conceived, and the smoothest of the three that I have read. 

“On the surface it is a slightly pensive recitation of rueful and dramatic happenings. 
Essentially, though, it is an expert and complete analysis of a moralistic moron. With the 
scalpel of a deft technique Bojer lays bare the flabby heart, the gelatinous spine, the mushy 
brain, the feeble viscera of a pietistic coward, the man of easy sentiment, ready martyrdom, 
and quick remorse, the male who distrusts his instincts, clouds his reason with every sham, 
relies upon a Pippa Passes and Marxian heaven, and wonders why he fares so ill. And so 
pleasantly interesting is Bojer in this display of clinical virtuosity that you forget to ob¬ 
serve that the cadaver is more than a trifle nauseous. At once a scientific and artistic tri¬ 
umph, combining the art of the prestidigitateur with that of the surgeon. 

“It is a fine, ironic story, none the less poignant for its being bitter-sweet.”— Burton 
Rascoe, in the Chicago Tribune. 



THE GREAT HUNGER 

BY 

JOHAN BOJER 

M 


TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN 
BY 

W. J. ALEXANDER WORSTER 

AND 

C. ARCHER 



NEW YORK 

MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 
1921 











N. 



s 


Copyright. 1919, ft* 
MOFFAT. YARD & COMPANY 


Second Printing. 
Third Printing . 
Fourth printing. 
Fijth printing ... 
Sixth printing.. 
Seventh printing 
Eighth printing. 
Ninth printing. 
Tenth printing ., 


. January, 191 $ 
. February, 1919 
...March, 1919 

_ May, 1919 

August 11, 1919 
.November, 1919 
...March, 1920 

- July, 1920 

... April, 1921 


n 


I * j 


■t. ■*-* 


Ufa 

w 












BOOK I 


♦ 





































. 










Chapter I 


For sheer havoc, there is no gale like a good 
northwester, when it roars in, through the long 
winter evenings, driving the spindrift before it 
between the rocky walls of the fjord. It chums 
the water to a froth of rushing wave crests, while 
the boats along the beach are flung in somersaults 
up to the doors of the grey fisher huts, and solid 
old bam gangways are lifted and sent flying like 
unwieldy birds over the fields. ‘ 4 Mercy on usl” 
cry the maids, for it is milking-time, and they have 
to fight their way on hands and knees across the 
yard to the cowshed, dragging a lantern that will 
go out and a milk-pail that won’t be held. And 
‘ 1 Lord preserve us!” mutter the old wives seated 
round the stove within doors—and their thoughts 
are far away in the north with the Lofoten fisher¬ 
men, out at sea, maybe, this very night. 

But on a calm spring day, the fjord just steals 
in smooth and shining by ness and bay. And at 
low water there is a whole wonderland of strange 
little islands, sand-banks, and weed-fringed rocks 
left high and dry, with clear pools between, where 
bare-legged urchins splash about, and tiny flat¬ 
fish as big as a halfpenny dart away to every side. 
The air is filled with a smell of salt sea-water and 


ii 




12 


The Great Hunger 


warm, wet beach-waste, and the sea-pie, see-saw¬ 
ing about on a big stone in the water, lifts his red 
beak cheerily sunwards and pipes: ‘ ‘ Kluip, kluip! 
the spring has come!” 

On just such a day, two boys of fourteen or 
thereabouts came hurrying out from one of the 
fishermen’s huts down towards the beach. Boys 
are never so busy as when they are up to some 
piece of mischief, and evidently the pair had busi¬ 
ness of this sort in hand. Peer Troen, fair-haired 
and sallow-faced, was pushing a wheelbarrow; his 
companion, Martin Bruvold, a dark youth with 
freckles, carried a tub. And both talked mysteri¬ 
ously in whispers, casting anxious glances out 
over the water. 

Peer Troen was, of course, the ringleader. That 
he always was: the forest fire of last year was 
laid at his door. And now he had made it clear to 
some of his friends that boys had just as much 
right to lay out deep-sea lines as men. All through 
the winter they had been kept at grown-up work, 
cutting peat and carrying wood; why should they 
be left now to fool about with the inshore fishing, 
and bring home nothing better than flounders and 
coal-fish and silly codlings ? The big deep-sea line 
they were forbidden to touch—that was so—but 
the Lofoten fishery was at its height, and none of 
the men would be back till it was over. So the 
boys had baited up the line on the sly down at the 
boathouse the day before, and laid it out across 
the deepest part of the fjord. 




The Great Hunger 


13 


Now the thing about a deep-sea line is that it 
may bring to the surface fish so big and so fear¬ 
some that the like has never been seen before. 
Yesterday, however, there had been trouble of a 
different sort. To their dismay, the boys had 
found that they had not sinkers enough to weight 
the shore end of the line; and it looked as if they 
might have to give up the whole thing. But Peer, 
ever ready, had hit on the novel idea of making 
one end fast to the trunk of a small fir growing at 
the outermost point of the ness, and carrying the 
line from there out over the open fjord. Then a 
stone at the farther end, and with the magic 
words, “Fie, fish!” it was paid out overboard, 
vanishing into the green depths. The deed was 
done. True, there were a couple of hooks dan¬ 
gling in mid-air at the shore end, between the tree 
and the water, and, while they might serve to catch 
an eider duck, or a guillemot, if any one should 
chance to come rowing past in the dark and get 
hung up—why, the boys might find they had made 
a human catch. No wonder, then, that they whis¬ 
pered eagerly and hurried down to the boat. 

“Here comes Peter Bonningen,” cried Martin 
suddenly. 

This was the third member of the crew, a lanky 
youth with whitish eyebrows and a foolish face. 
He stammered, and made a queer noise when he 
laughed: “Chee-hee-hee.” Twice he had been 
turned down in the confirmation classes; after all, 
what was the use of learning lessons out of a book 




14 


The Great Hunger 


when nobody ever bad patience to wait while be 
said them? 

Together they ran the boat down to the water’s 
edge, got it afloat, and scrambled in, with much 
waving of patched trouser legs. “Hi!” cried a 
voice up on the beach, “let me come too!” 

c i There’s Klans, ’ ’ said Martin. ‘ 1 Shall we take 
him along?” 

“No,” said Peter Ronningen. 

“Oh yes, let’s,” said Peer. 

Klans Brock, the son of the district doctor, was 
a bine-eyed youngster in knickerbockers and a 
sailor blonse. He was playing trnant, no doubt— 
Klans had his lessons at hoipie with a private 
tutor—and would certainly get a thrashing from 
his father when he got home. 

“Hurry up,” called Peer, getting out an oar. 
Klaus clambered in, and the white-straked four- 
oar surged across the bay, rocking a little as the 
boys pulled out of stroke. Martin was rowing at 
the bow, his eyes fixed on Peer, who sat in the 
stem in command with his eyes dancing, full of 
great things to be done. Martin, poor fellow, was 
half afraid already; he never could understand 
why Peer, who was to be a parson when he grew 
up, was always hitting upon things to do that 
were evidently sinful in the sight of the Lord. 

Peer was a town boy, who had been put out to 
board with a fisherman in the village. His mother 
had been no better than she should be, so people 
said, but she was dead now, and the father at any 





The Great Hunger 


15 


rate must be a rich gentleman, for be sent tbe 
boy a present of ten whole crowns every Christ¬ 
mas, so that Peer always had money in his pocket. 
Naturally, then, he was looked up to by the other 
boys, and took the lead in all things as a chief¬ 
tain by right. 

The boat moved on past the grey rocks, the 
beach and the huts above it growing blue and faint 
in the distance. Up among the distant hills a red 
wooden farm-house on its white foundation wall 
stood out clear. 

Here was the ness at last, and there stood 
the fir. Peer climbed up and loosed the end of 
the line, while the others leaned over the side, 
watching the cord where it vanished in the depths. 
What would it bring to light when it came up? 

“Row!” ordered Peer, and began hauling in. 

The boat was headed straight out across the 
fjord, and the long line with its trailing hooks 
hauled in and coiled up neatly in the bottom of 
a shallow tub. Peer’s heart was beating. There 
came a tug—the first—and the faint shimmer of 
a fish deep down in the water. Pooh! only a big 
cod. Peer heaved it in with a careless swing over 
the gunwale. Next came a ling—a deep water fish 
at any rate this time. Then a tusk, and another, 
and another; these would please the women, being 
good eating, and perhaps make them hold their 
tongues when the men came home. Now the line 
jerks heavily; what is coming? A grey shadow 
comes in sight. “Here with the gaff!” cries Peer, 




16 


The Great Hunger 


and Peter throws it across to him. “What is it, 
what is it?” shriek the other three. “Steady! 
don’t upset the boat; a catfish.” A stroke of the 
gaff over the side, and a clumsy grey body is 
heaved into the boat, where it rolls about, hissing 
and biting at the bottom-boards and baler, the 
splinters crackling under its teeth. 1 6 Mind, 
mind!” cries Klaus—he was always nervous in 
a boat. 

But Peer was hauling in again. They were 
nearly half-way across the fjord by now, and the 
line came up from mysterious depths, which no 
fisherman had ever sounded. The strain on Peer 
began to show in his looks; the others sat watch¬ 
ing his face. “Is the line heavy?” asked Klaus. 
“Keep still, can’t you?” put in Martin, glancing 
along the slanting line to where it vanished far 
below. Peer was still hauling. A sense of some¬ 
thing uncanny seemed to be thrilling up into his 
hands from the deep sea. The feel of the line was 
strange. There was no great weight, not even the 
clean tug-tug of an ordinary fish; it was as if a 
giant hand were pulling gently, very gently, to 
draw him overboard and down into the depths. 
Then suddenly a violent jerk almost dragged him 
over the side. 

“Look out! What is it?” cried the three to¬ 
gether. 

“Sit down in the boat,” shouted Peer. And 
with the true fisherman’s sense of discipline they 
obeyed. 




The Great Hunger 


17 


Peer was gripping the line firmly with one hand, 
the other clutching one of the thwarts. 4 ‘Have 
we another gaff f ” he jerked out breathlessly. 

44 Here’s one.” Peter Ronningen pulled out a 
second iron-hooked cudgel. 

44 You take it, Martin, and stand by.” 

14 But what—what is it?” 

44 Don’t know what it is. But it’s something 
big.” 

4 4 Cut the line, and row for your lives!” wailed 
the doctor’s son. Strange he should be such a 
coward at sea, a fellow who’d tackle a man twice 
his size on dry land. 

Once more Peer was jerked almost overboard, 
He thought of the forest fire the year before—it 
would never do to have another such mishap on 
his shoulders. Suppose the great monster did 
come up and capsize them—-they were ever so far 
from land. What a to do there would be if they 
were all drowned, and it came out that it was his 
fault. Involuntarily he felt for his knife to cut the 
line—then thrust it back again, and went on haul- 
mg.' 

Here it comes—a great shadow heaving up 
through the water. The huge beast flings itself 
round, sending a flurry of bubbles to the surface. 
And there!—a gleam of white; a row of great 
white teeth on the underside. Aha! now he knows 
what it is! The Greenland shark is the fiercest 
monster of the northern seas, quite able to make 
short work of a few boys or so. 




18 


The Great Hunger 


6 6 Steady now, Martin—ready with the gaff . 9 7 

The brute was wallowing on the surface now, the 
water boiling around him. His tail lashed the sea 
to foam, a big, pointed head showed up, squirming 
under the hook. “Now!” cried Peer, and two 
gaffs struck at the same moment, the boat heeled 
over, letting in a rush of water, and Klaus, drop¬ 
ping his oars, sprang into the how, with a cry of 
“Jesus, save us!” 

Next second a heavy body, big as a grown man, 
was heaved in over the gunwale, and two boys 
were all but shot out the other way. And now 
the fun began. The boys loosed their hold of the 
gaffs, and sprang apart to give the creature room. 
There it lay raging, the great black beast of prey, 
with its sharp threatening snout and wicked red 
eyes ablaze. The strong tail lashed out, hurling 
oars and balers overboard, the long teeth snapped 
at the bottom-boards and thwarts. Now and again 
it would leap high up in the air, only to fall back 
again, writhing furiously, hissing and spitting and 
frothing at the mouth, its red eyes glaring from 
one to another of the terrified captors, as if say¬ 
ing: “Come on—just a little nearer!” 

Meanwhile, Martin Bruvold was in terror that 
the shark would smash the boat to pieces. He 
drew his knife and took a step forward—a flash in 
the air, and the steel went in deep between the 
back fins, sending up a spurt of blood. “Look 
out!” cried the others, but Martin had already 
sprung back out of reach of the black tail. And 





The Great Hunger 


19 


now the dance of death began anew. The knife 
was fixed to the grip in the creature’s back; one 
gaff had buried its hook between the eyes, and 
another hung on the flank—the wooden shafts 
were flung this way and that at every bound, and 
the boat’s frame shook and groaned under the 
blows. 

“ She ’ll smash the boat and we’ll go to the bot¬ 
tom,” cried Peer. 

And now his knife flashed out and sent a stream 
of blood spouting from between the shoulders, but 
the blow cost him his foothold—and in a moment 
the two bodies were rolling over and over together 
in the bottom of the boat. 

“Oh, Lord Jesus!” shrieked Klaus, clinging to 
the stempost. i 1 She ’ll kill him! She ’ll kill him! ’ ’ 

Peer was half up now, on his knees, but as he 
reached out a hand to grasp the side, the brute’s 
jaws seized on his arm. The boy’s face was con¬ 
torted with pain—another moment and the sharp 
teeth would have bitten through, when, swift as 
thought, Peter Ronningen dropped his oars and 
sent his knife straight in between the beast’s eyes. 
The blade pierced through to the brain, and the 
grip of the teeth relaxed. 

“C-c-cursed d-d-devil!” stammered Peter, as he 
scrambled back to his oars. Another moment, and 
Peer had dragged himself clear and was kneeling 
by the forward thwart, holding the ragged sleeve 
of his wounded arm, while the blood trickled 
through his fingers. 




20 


The Great Hunger 


When at last they were pulling homeward, the 
little boat overloaded with the weight of the great 
carcase, all at once they stopped rowing. 

“WTiere is Klaus V 9 asked Peer—for the doc¬ 
tor’s son was gone from where he had sat, clinging 
to the stem. 

‘ 4 Why—there he is—in the bottom!’ ’ 

There lay the big lout of fifteen, who already 
boasted of his love-affairs, learned German, and 
was to be a gentleman like his father—there he lay 
on the bottom-boards in the bow in a dead faint. 

The others were frightened at first, but Peer, 
who was sitting washing his wounded arm, took 
a dipper full of water and flung it in the uncon¬ 
scious one’s face. The next instant Klaus had 
started up sitting, caught wildly at the gunwale, 
and shrieked out: 

“Cut the line, and row for your lives!” 

A roar of laughter went up from the rest; they 
dropped their oars and sat doubled up and gasp¬ 
ing. But on the beach, before going home, they 
agreed to say nothing about Klaus’s fainting fit. 
And for weeks afterwards the four scamps’ ex¬ 
ploit was the talk of the village, so that they felt 
there was not much fear of their getting the 
thrashing they deserved when the men came home* 





Chapter II 


When Peer, as quite a little fellow, had been 
sent to live with the old couple at Troen, he had 
already passed several times from one adopted 
home to another, though this he did not remember. 
He was one of the madcaps of the village now, 
but it was not long since he had been a solitary 
child, moping apart from the rest. Why did peo¬ 
ple always say ‘ 4 Poor child!” whenever they were 
speaking about his real mother? Why did they 
do it? Why, even Peter Bonningen, when he was 
angry, would stammer out: “ You ba-ba-bastard!’ ’ 
But Peer called the pock-marked good-wife at 
Troen “mother” and her bandy-legged husband 
“father,” and lent the old man a hand wherever 
he was wanted—in the smithy or in the boats at 
the fishing. 

His childhood was passed among folk who 
counted it sinful to smile, and whose minds were 
gloomy as the grey sea-fog with poverty, psalm¬ 
singing, and the fear of hell. 

One day, coming home from his work at the peat 
bog, he found the elders snuffling and sighing over 
their afternoon meal. Peer wiped the sweat from 
his forehead, and asked what was the matter. 

The eldest son shoved a spoonful of porridge 




22 


The Great Hunger 


into his mouth, wiped his eyes, swallowed, and 
said: “Poor Peer!” 

“Aye, poor little chap,” sighed the old man, 
thrusting his horn spoon into a crack in the wall 
that served as a rack. 

“Neither father nor mother now,” whimpered 
the eldest daughter, looking over to the window. 

“Mother? Is she-” 

“Ay, dearie, yes,” sighed the old woman. 
“She’s gone for sure—gone to meet her Judge.” 

Later, as the day went on, Peer tried to cry 
too. The worst thing of all was that every one in 
the house seemed so perfectly certain where his 
mother had gone to. And to heaven it certainly 
was not. But how could they he so sure about it? 

Peer had seen her only once, one summer’s day 
when she had come out to see the place. She wore 
a light dress and a big straw hat, and he thought 
he had never seen anything so beautiful before. 
She made no secret of it among the neighbours 
that Peer was not her only child; there was a little 
girl, too, named Louise, who was with some folks 
away up in the inland parishes. She was in high 
spirits, and told risky stories and sang songs by 
no means sacred. The old people shook their 
heads over her—the younger ones watched her 
with sidelong glances. And when she left, she 
kissed Peer, and turned round more than once to 
look back at him, flushed under her big hat, and 
smiling; and it seemed to Peer that she must 
surely be the loveliest creature in all the world. 





The Great Hunger 


23 


But now—now she had gone to a place where 
the ungodly dwell in such frightful torment, and 
no hope of salvation for her through all eternity— 
and Peer all the while could only think of her in 
a light dress and a big straw hat, all song and 
happy laughter. 

Then came the question: Who was to pay for 
the boy now? True, his baptismal certificate said 
that he had a father—his name was Holm, and he 
lived in Christiania—but, from what the mother 
had said, it was understood that he had disap¬ 
peared long ago. What was to be done with the 
boy? 

Never till now had Peer rightly understood that 
he was a stranger here, for all that he called the 
old couple father and mother. 

He lay awake night after night up in the loft, 
listening to the talk about him going on in the 
room below—the good-wife crying and saying: 
“No, no!”, the others saying how hard the times 
were, and that Peer was quite old enough now to 
be put to service as a goat-herd on some up-coun¬ 
try farm. 

Then Peer would draw the skin-rug up over his 
head. But often, when one of the elders chanced 
to be awake at night, he could hear some one in the 
loft sobbing in his sleep. In the daytime he took 
up as little room as he could at the table, and 
ate as little as humanly possible; but every morn¬ 
ing he woke up in fear that to-day—to-day he 




24 


The Great Hunger 


would have to bid the old foster-mother farewell 
and go out among strangers. 

Then something new and unheard of plumped 
down into the little cottage by the fjord. 

There came a registered letter with great dabs 
of sealing-wax all over it, and a handwriting so 
gentlemanly as to be almost unreadable. Every 
one crowded round the eldest son to see it opened 
—and out fell five ten-crown notes. “ Mercy on 
us!” they cried in amazement, and “Can it be for 
us V ’ The next thing was to puzzle out what was 
written in the letter. And who should that turn 
out to be from but—no other than Peer’s father, 
though he did not say it in so many words. “Be 
good to the boy,” the letter said. “You will re¬ 
ceive fifty crowns from me every half-year. See 
that he gets plenty to eat and goes dry and well 
shod. Faithfully your, P. TIolm, Captain.” 

“Why, Peer—he’s—he’s- Your father’s a 

captain, an officer,” stammered the eldest girl, and 
fell back a step to stare at the boy. 

“And we’re to get twice as much for him as be¬ 
fore,” said the son, holding the notes fast and 
gazing up at the ceiling, as if he were informing 
Heaven of the fact. 

But the old wife was thinking of something else 
as she folded her hands in thankfulness—now she 
needn’t lose the boy. 

“Properly fed!” No need to fear for that. 
Peer had treacle with his porridge that very day, 
though it was only a week-day. And the eldest son 





The Great Hunger 


25 


gave him a pair of stockings, and made him sit 
down and put them on then and there; and the 
same night, when he went to bed, the eldest girl 
came and tucked him up in a new skin-rug, not 
quite so hairless as the old one. His father a cap¬ 
tain ! It seemed too wonderful to be true. 

From that day times were changed for Peer. 
People looked at him with very different eyes. No 
one said ‘‘Poor boy” of him now. The other boys 
left off calling him bad names; the grown-ups said 
he had a future before him. 4 4 You’ll see,” they 
would say, *‘that father of yours will get you on; 
you’ll be a parson yet, ay, maybe a bishop, too.” 
At Christmas, there came a ten-crown note all for 
himself, to do just as he liked with. Peer changed 
it into silver, so that his purse was near bursting 
with prosperity. No wonder he began to go about 
with his nose in the air, and play the little prince 
and chieftain among the boys. Even Klaus Brock, 
the doctor’s son, made up to him, and taught him 
to play cards. But— 4 ‘You surely don’t mean to 
go and be a parson, ’ ’ he would say. 

For all this, no one could say that Peer was too 
proud to help with the fishing, or make himself 
useful in the smithy. But when the sparks flew 
showering from the glowing iron, he could not help 
seeing visions of his own—visions that flew out 
into the future. Aye, he would be a priest. He 
might be a sinner now, and a wild young scamp; 
he certainly did curse and swear like a trooper at 
times, if only to show the other boys that it was 




26 


The Great Hunger 


all nonsense about the earth opening and swallow¬ 
ing you up. But a priest he would be, all the same. 
None of your parsons with spectacles and a pot 
belly: no, but a sort of heavenly messenger with 
snowy white robes and a face of glory. Perhaps 
some day he might even come so far that he could 
go down into that place of torment where his 
mother lay, and bring her up again, up to salva¬ 
tion. And when, in autumn evenings, he stood 
outside his palace, a white-haired bishop, he would 
lift up his finger, and all the stars should break 
into song. 

Clang, clang, sang the anvil under the hammer’s 
beat. 

In the still summer evenings a troop of boys go 
climbing up the naked slopes towards the high 
wooded ranges to fetch home the cows for the 
milking. The higher they climb, the farther and 
farther their sight can travel out over the sea. 
And an hour or two later, as the sun goes down, 
here comes a long string of red-flanked cattle trail¬ 
ing down, with a faint jangle of bells, over the far- 
off ridges. The boys halloo them on—“Ohoo-oo- 
oo!”—and swing their ringed rowan staves, and 
spit red juice of the alder bark that they are chew¬ 
ing as men chew tobacco. Far below them they 
see the farm lands, grey in shadow, and, beyond, 
the waters of the fjord, yellow in the evening light, 
a mirror where red clouds and white sails and hills 
of liquid blue are shining. And away out on the 




The Great Hunger 


27 


farthest headland, the lonely star of the coast light 
over the grey sea. 

On such an evening Peer came down from the 
hills just in time to see a gentleman in a carriole 
turn off from the highway and take the by-road 
down towards Troen. The horse balked suddenly 
at a small bridge, and when the driver reined him 
in and gave him a cut with his whip, the beast 
reared, swung about, and sent the cart fairly 
dancing round on its high wheels. ‘ ‘ Oh, well, then, 
Til have to walk,” cried the gentleman angrily, 
and, flinging the reins to the lad behind him, he 
jumped down. Just at this moment Peer came up. 

“Here, boy,” began the traveller, “just take 
this bag, will you! And-” He broke off sud¬ 

denly, took a step backward, and looked hard at 

the boy. “What—surely it can’t be- Is it 

you, Peer?” 

“Ye-es,” said Peer, gaping a little, and took 
off his cap. 

“Well, now, that’s funny. My name is Holm. 
Well, well—well, well!” 

The lad in the cart had driven off, and the gen¬ 
tleman from the city and the pale country boy 
with the patched trousers stood looking at each 
other. 

The newcomer was a man of fifty or so, but still 
straight and active, though his hair and close- 
trimmed beard were sprinkled with grey. His 
eyes twinkled gaily under the brim of his black 
felt hat; his long overcoat was open, showing a 





28 


The Great Hunger 


gold chain across liis waistcoat. With a pair of 
gloves and an umbrella in one hand, a light travel¬ 
ling hag in the other, and his beautifully polished 
shoes—a grand gentleman, thought Peer, if ever 
there was one. And this was his father! 

“So that's how you look, my boy? Not very 
big for your age—nearly sixteen now, aren't you? 
Do they give you enough to eat?" 

“Yes," said Peer, with conviction. 

The pair walked down together, towards the 
grey cottage by the fjord. Suddenly the man 
stopped, and looked at it through half-shut eyes. 

“Is that where you've been living all these 
years?" 

“Yes." 

‘ ‘ In that little hut there ?'' 

“Yes. That's the place—Troen they call it." 

“Why, that wall there bulges so, I should think 
the whole affair would collapse soon." 

Peer tried to laugh at this, but felt something 
like a lump in his throat. It hurt to hear fine folks 
talk like that of father and mother’s little house. 

There was a great flurry when the strange gen¬ 
tleman appeared in the doorway. The old wife 
was kneading away at the dough for a cake, the 
front of her al.l white with flour; the old man sat 
with his spectacles on, patching a shoe, and the 
two girls sprang up from their spinning wheels. 
“Well, here I am. My name's Holm," said the 
traveller, looking round and smiling. “Mercy on 





The Great Hunger 


29 


us! the Captain his own self, ’’ mnrmnred the old 
woman, wiping her hands on her skirt. 

He was an affable gentleman, and soon set them 
all at their ease. He sat down in the seat of 
honour, drumming with his fingers on the table, 
and talking easily as if quite at home. One of the 
girls had been in service for a while in a Consul’s 
family in the town, and knew the ways of gentle¬ 
folk, and she fetched a bowl of milk and offered 
it with a curtsy and a: “Will the Captain please 
to take some milk?” “Thanks, thanks,” said the 
visitor. “And what is your name, my dear? 
Come, there’s nothing to blush about. Nicoline? 
First-rate! And you ? Lusiana ? That’s right. ’ ’ 
He looked at the red-rimmed basin, and, taking 
it up, all but emptied it at a draught, then, wiping 
his beard, took breath. “Phu!—that was good. 
Well, so here I am.” And he looked around the 
room and at each of them in turn, and smiled, 
and drummed with his fingers, and said, “Well, 
well—well, well,” and seemed much amused with 
everything in general. “By the way, Nicoline,” 
he said suddenly, “since you’re so well up in titles, 
I’m not * Captain’ any more now; they’ve sent me 
up this way as Lieutenant-Colonel, and my wife 
has just had a house left her in your town here, 
so we may be coming to settle down in these 
parts. And perhaps you’d better send letters to 
me through a friend in future. But we can talk 
about all that by and by. Well, well—well, well.” 
And all the time he was drumming with his fingers 




30 


The Great Hunger 


on the table and smiling. Peer noticed that he 
wore gold sleeve-links and a fine gold stnd in his 
broad white shirt-front. 

And then a little packet was produced. “Hi, 
Peer, come and look; here’s something for you.” 
And the “something” was nothing less than a real 
silver watch—and Peer was quite unhappy for the 
moment because he couldn’t dash off at once and 
show it to all the other boys. “There’s a father 
for you,” said the old wife, clapping her hands, 
and almost in tears. But the visitor patted her on 
the shoulder. “Father? father? H’m—that’s 
not a thing any one can be so sure about. Haha- 
ha!” And “hahaha” echoed the old man, still 
sitting with the awl in his hand. This was the sort 
of joke he could appreciate. 

Then the visitor went out and strolled about the 
place, with his hands under his coat tails, and 
looked at the sky, and the fjord, and murmured, 
“Well, well—well, well,” and Peer followed him 
about all the while, and gazed at him as he might 
have gazed at a star. He was to sleep in a neigh¬ 
bour’s house, where there was a room that had a 
bed with sheets on it, and Peer went across with 
him and carried his bag. It was Martin Bruvold’a 
parents who were to house the traveller, and peo¬ 
ple stood round staring at the place. Martin him¬ 
self was waiting outside. ‘ ‘ This a friend of yours, 
Peer? Here, then, my boy, here’s something to 
buy a big farm with.” This time it was a five- 
crown note, and Martin stood fingering it, hardly 




The Great Hunger 


31 


able to believe bis eyes. Peer’s father was some¬ 
thing like a father. 

It was a fine thing, too, to see a grand gentleman 
undress. “I’ll have things like that some day,” 
thought Peer, watching each new wonder that 
came out of the bag. There was a silver-backed 
brush, that he brushed his hair and beard with, 
walking up and down in his underclothes and hum¬ 
ming to himself. And then there was another 
shirt, with red stripes round the collar, just to 
wear in bed. Peer nodded to himself, taking 
it all in. And when the stranger was in bed 
he took out a flask with a silver cork, that screwed 
off and turned into a cup, and had a dram for a 
nightcap; and then he reached for a long pipe 
with a beaded cord, and when it was drawing well 
he stretched himself out comfortably and smiled 
at Peer. 

i ‘Well, now, my boy—are you getting on well 
at school V 9 

Peer put his hands behind him and set one foot 
forward. “Yes—he says so—teacher does.” 

“How much is twelve times twelve?” 

That was a stumper! Peer hadn’t got beyond 
ten times ten. 

“Do they teach you gymnastics at the school?” 

“Gym-? What’s that?” 

“Jumping and vaulting and climbing ropes and 
drilling in squads—what?” 

“But isn’t it—isn’t that wicked?” 

‘ ‘ Wicked! Hahaha! Wicked, did you say ? So 




82 


The Great Hunger 


that’s the way they look at things here, is it? Well, 
well—well, well! Hahaha! Hand me that match¬ 
box, my boy. H’m! ’’ He puffed away for a while 
in silence. Then, suddenly: 

“See here, boy. Did you know you’d a little 
sister?” 

“Yes, I know.” 

1 ‘ Half-sister, that is to say. I didn’t quite know 
how it was myself. But I may as well tell you, my 
boy, that I paid the same for you all along, the 
same as now. Only I sent the money by your 
mother, and she—well, she, poor girl, had another 
one to look after, and no father to pay for it. So 
she made my money do for both. Hahaha! Well, 
poor girl, we can’t blame her for that. Anyhow, 
we’ll have to look after that little half-sister of 
yours now, I suppose, till she grows up. Don’t 
you think so yourself?” 

Peer felt the tears coming. Think so!—indeed 
he did. 

Next day Peer’s father went away. He stood 
there, ready to start, in the living-room at Troen, 
stiff felt hat and overcoat and all, and said, in a 
tone like the sheriff’s when he gives out a public 
notice at the church door: 

“And, by the way, you’re to have the boy con¬ 
firmed this year.” 

“Yes, to be sure we will,” the old mother has¬ 
tened to say. 

“Then I wish him to be properly dressed, like 
the best of the other youngsters. And there’s fifty 




The Great Hunger 


33 


crowns for him to give the school-teacher and the 
parson as a parting gift.” He handed over some 
more notes. 

‘‘Afterwards,’’ he went on, “I mean, of course, 
to look after him until he can make his own way 
in a respectable position. But first we must see 
what he has a turn for, and what he’d like to he 
himself. He’d better come to town and talk it over 
with me—but I’ll write and arrange all that after 
he’s confirmed. Then in case anything unexpected 
should happen to me, there’s some money laid by 
for him in a savings bank account; he can apply 
to a friend of mine, who knows all about it. Well, 
good-bye, and very many thanks!” 

And the great man smiled to right and left, and 
shook them all by the hand, and waved his hat and 
was gone. 

For the next few days Peer walked on air, and 
found it hard to keep his footing at all on the 
common earth. People were for ever filling his 
head with talk about that savings bank account— 
it might be only a few thousands of crowns—but 
then again, it might run up to a million. A million! 
and here he was, eating herrings for dinner, and 
talking to Tom, Dick, and Harry just like any one 
else. A million crowns! 

Late in the autumn came the confirmation, and 
the old wooden church, with its tarred walls, nes¬ 
tled among its mighty tree-tops, sent its chimes 
ringing and ringing out into the blue autumn air. 
It seemed to Peer like some kindly old grand- 




34 


The Great Hunger 


mother, calling so lovingly: “Come, come—old 
and yonng—old and young—from fjord and val¬ 
ley—northway s and southways; come, come—this 
day of all days—this day of all days—come, come, 
come!” So it had stood, ringing out the chimes 
for one generation after another through hundreds 
of years, and now it is calling to us. And the young 
folks are there, looking at one another in their 
new clothes, and blowing their noses on clean 
white handkerchiefs, so carefully folded. There 
comes Peter Ronningen, passed by good luck this 
year, but forced to turn out in a jacket borrowed 
from Peer, as the tailor wasn’t ready with his 
own new things. The boys say “how-do-you-do” 
s and try to smile like grown-up folks. One or two 
of them may have some little account dating from 
old school-fights waiting to be settled—but, never 
mind—just as well to forget old scores now. Peer 
caught sight of Johan Ivoja, who stole a pencil 
from him last summer, but, after all, even that 
didn’t seem worth making a fuss about. “Well, 
how’ve you been getting on since last summer?” 
they ask each other, as they move together up the 
stone steps to the big church door, through which 
the peal of the organ comes rolling out to meet 
them. 

How good it seems, and how kind, the little 
church, where all you see bids you welcome! 
Through the stained-glass windows with their tiny 
leaded panes falls a light so soft that even poor 
ugly faces seem beautiful. The organ tones are 




The Great Hunger 


35 


the very light itself turned into sweet sound. On 
one side of the nave you can see all the boys’ 
heads, sleek with water; on the other the little 
mothers to be, in grown-up dress to-day for the 
first time, kerchief on head and hymn-book in 
hand, and with careful faces. And now they all 
sing. The elder folks have taken their places 
farther back to-day, but they join in, looking up 
now and again from the book to those young heads 
in front, and wondering how they will fare in life. 
And the young folk themselves are thinking as 
they sing, “ To-day is the beginning of new things. 
Play and frolic are over and done with; from to¬ 
day we’re grown-up.” But the church and all in 
it seemed to say: 4 ‘If ever you are in heavy 
trouble, come hither to me.” Just look at that 
altar-piece there—the wood-carvings are a whole 
Bible in themselves—but Moses with the Tables 
of the Law is gentle of face to-day; you can see 
he means no harm after all. St. Peter, with the 
keys, pointing upwards, looks like a kind old uncle, 
bringing something good home from market. And 
then the angels on the walls, pictured or carved 
in wood, have borrowed the voice of the organ and 
the tones of the hymn, and they widen out the 
vaulted roof into the dome of heaven; while light 
and song and worshippers melt together and soar 
upwards toward the infinite spaces. 

Peer was thinking all the time: I don’t care if 
I’m rich as rich, I will be a priest. And then per¬ 
haps with all my money I can build a church 




The Great Hunger 


36 


that no one ever saw the like of. And the first 
couple I’ll marry there shall be Martin Bruvold 
and little sister Louise—if only he’ll have her. 
Just wait and see! 

A few days later he wrote to his father, asking 
if he might come into town now and go to school. 
A long time passed, and then at last a letter came 
in a strange hand-writing, and all the grown folks 
at Troen came together again to read it. But 
what was their amazement when they read: 

‘‘You will possibly have learned by now from 
the newspapers that your benefactor, Colonel 
Holm, has met his death by a fall from a horse. I 
must therefore request you to call on me person¬ 
ally at your earliest convenience, as I have several 
matters to settle with you. Yours faithfully, J. 
Grundt, Senior Master.” 

They stood and looked at one another. 

Peer was crying—chiefly, it must be admitted, 
at the thought of having to bid good-bye to all 
the Troen folks and the two cows, and the calf, 
and the grey cat. He might have to go right on 
to Christiania, no later than to-morrow—to go to 
school there; and when he came back—why, very 
likely the old mother might not be there any 
more. 

So all three of them were heavy-hearted, when 
the pock-marked good-wife, and the bow-legged 
old man, came down with him to the pier. And 
soon he was standing on the deck of the fjord 
steamer, gazing at the two figures growing smaller 




The Great Hunger 


37 


and smaller on the shore. And then one hut after 
another in the little hamlet disappeared behind the 
ness—Troen itself was gone now—and the hills 
and the woods where he had cut ring staves and 
searched for stray cattle—swiftly all known things 
drew away and vanished, until at last the whole 
parish was gone, and his childhood over. 




Chapter III 


As evening fell, lie saw a multitude of lights 
spread out on every side far ahead in the darkness. 
And next, with his little wooden chest on his shoul¬ 
der, he was finding his way up through the streets 
by the quay to a lodging-house for country folk, 
which he knew from former visits, when he had 
come to the town with the Lofoten boats. 

Next morning, clad in his country homespun, 
he marched up along River Street, over the bridge, 
and up the hill to the villa quarter, where he had 
to ask the way. At last he arrived outside a white- 
painted wooden house standing back in a garden. 
Here was the place—the place where his fate was 
to be decided. After the country fashion he 
walked in at the kitchen door. 

A stout servant maid in a big white apron was 
rattling the rings of the kitchen range into place ; 
there was a pleasing smell of coffee and good 
things to eat. Suddenly a door opened, and a 
figure in a dressing-gown appeared—a tall red- 
haired man with gold spectacles astride on a long 
red nose, his thick hair and scrubby little mous¬ 
taches touched with grey. He gasped once or twice 
and then started sneezing—hoc-hoc-put-putsch!— 
wiped his nose with a large pocket-handkerchief, 
and grumbled out: “Ugh!—this wretched cold— 
38 




The Great Hunger 


39 


can’t get rid of it. How about my socks, Bertha, 
my good girl; do you think they are quite dry 
now?” 

“I’ve had them hung up ever since I lit the 
fire this morning,” said the girl, tossing her 
head. 

“But who is this young gentleman, may I ask?” 
The gold spectacles were turned full on Peer, who 
rose and bowed. 

“Said he wanted to speak to you, sir,” put in 
the maid. 

“Ah. From the country, I see. Have you any¬ 
thing to sell, my lad?” 

“No,” said Peer. He had had a letter. . . . 

The red head seemed positively frightened at 
this—and the dressing-gown faltered backwards, 
as if to find support. He cast a hurried glance at 
the girl, and then beckoned with a long fore-finger 
to Peer. “Yes, yes, perfectly so. Be so good as 
to come this way, my lad. ’ ’ 

Peer found himself in a room with rows of books 
all round the walls, and a big writing-table in the 
centre. “Sit down, my boy.” The schoolmaster 
went and picked out a long pipe, and filled it, clear¬ 
ing his throat nervously, with an occasional glance 
at the boy. ‘ ‘ H’m—so this is you. This is Peer— 
h’m.” He lit his pipe and puffed a little, found 
himself again obliged to sneeze—but at last set¬ 
tled down in a chair at the writing-table, stretched 
out his long legs, and puffed away again. 

“So that’s what you look like?” With a quick 




40 


The Great Hunger 


movement he reached for a photograph in a frame. 
Peer caught a glimpse of his father in uniform. 
The schoolmaster lifted his spectacles, stared at 
the picture, then let down his spectacles again and 
fell to scrutinising Peer’s face. There was a si¬ 
lence for a while, and then he said: “ Ah, indeed— 
I see—h’m. ’ ’ Then turning to Peer: 

“Well, my lad, it was very sudden—your bene¬ 
factor’s end—most unexpected. He is to he buried 
to-day.” 

“Benefactor?” thought Peer. “Why doesn’t 
he say ‘your father’?” 

The schoolmaster was gazing at the window. 
“He informed me some time ago of—h’m—of all 
the—all the benefits he had conferred on you— 
h’m! And he begged me to keep an eye on you 
myself in case anything happened to him. And 
now”—the spectacles swung round towards Peer 
—“now you are starting out in life by yourself, 
hey?” 

“Yes,” said Peer, shifting a little in his seat. 

“You will have to decide now what walk in life 
you are to—er—devote yourself to.” 

“Yes,” said Peer again, sitting up straighter. 

“You would perhaps like to be a fisherman— 
like the good people you’ve been brought up 
among?” 

“No.” Peer shook his head disdainfully. Was 
this man trying to make a fool of him? 

* ‘ Some trade, then, perhaps ? ’ ’ 

“No!’ 




The Great Hunger 


41 


“Oh, then I suppose it’s to be America. Well, 
yon will easily find company to go with. Such 
numbers are going nowadays—I am sorry to 
say. ... 99 

Peer pulled himself together. ‘ ‘ Oh, no, not that 
at all. ’ 9 Better get it out at once. ‘ ‘ I wish to be 
a priest ,’ 9 he said, speaking with a careful town 
accent. 

The schoolmaster rose from his seat, holding his 
long pipe up in the air in one hand, and pressing 
his ear forward with the other, as though to hear 
better. ‘ ‘ What ?—what did you say ? 9 9 

“A priest,” repeated Peer, but he moved behind 
his chair as he spoke, for it looked as if the school¬ 
master might fling the pipe at his head. 

But suddenly the red face broke into a smile, ex¬ 
posing such an array of greenish teeth as Peer had 
never seen before. Then he said in a sort of sing¬ 
song, nodding: “A priest? Oh, indeed! Quite a 
small matter!” He rose and wandered once or 
twice up and down the room, then stopped, nodded, 
and said in a fatherly tone—to one of the book¬ 
shelves: “H’m—really—really—we’re a little am¬ 
bitious, are we not?” 

He turned on Peer suddenly. “Look here, my 
young friend—don’t you think your benefactor has 
been quite generous enough to you already?” 

“Yes, indeed he has,” said Peer, his voice be¬ 
ginning to tremble a little. 

“There are thousands of boys in your position 
who are thrown out in the world after confirma- 




42 


The Great Hunger 


tion and left to shift for themselves, without a soul 
to lend them a helping hand.” 

“Yes,” gasped Peer, looking round involuntar¬ 
ily towards the door. 

“I can’t understand—who can have put these 
wild ideas into your head?” 

With an effort Peer managed to get out: “It’s 
always been what I wanted. And he—father-” 

“Who? Father-? Do you mean your ben¬ 

efactor?” 

“Well, he was my father, wasn’t he?” burst out 
Peer. 

The schoolmaster tottered back and sank into 
a chair, staring at Peer as if he thought him a 
quite hopeless subject. At last he recovered so 
far as to say: “Look here, my lad, don’t you 
think you might be content to call him—now and 
for the future—just your benefactor? Don’t you 
think he deserves it?” 

“Oh, yes,” whispered Peer, almost in tears. 

“You are thinking, of course—you and those 
who have put all this nonsense into your head— 
of the money which he—h’m ” 

“Yes—isn’t there a savings bank ac¬ 
count-?” 

“Aha! There we are! Yes, indeed. There is 
a savings bank account—in my care.” He rose, 
and hunted out from a drawer a small green- 
covered book. Peer could not take his eyes from 
it. “Here it is. The sum entered here to your 
account amounts to eighteen hundred crowns.” 




The Great Hunger 


43 


Crash! Peer felt as if he had fallen through 
the floor into the cellarage. All his dreams van¬ 
ished into thin air—the million crowns—priest 
and bishop—Christiania—and all the rest. 

“On the day when you are in a fair way to 
set up independently as an artisan, a farmer, or 
a fisherman—and when yon seem to me, to the 
best of my judgment, to deserve such help—then 
and not till then I place this book at your dis¬ 
posal. Do you understand what I say?” 

“Yes.” 

“I am perfectly sure that I am in full agree¬ 
ment with the wishes of the donor in deciding 
that the money must remain untouched in my 
safe keeping until then.” 

“Yes,” whispered Peer. 

“What?—are you crying?” 

“N-no. Good-morning-” 

“No, pray don’t go yet. Sit down. There are 
one or two things we must get settled at once. 
First of all—you must trust me, my good boy. 
Do you believe that I wish you well, or do you 
not?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then it is agreed that all these fancies about 
going to college and so forth must be driven out of 
your head once for all?” 

“Y-yes, sir.” 

“You can see yourself that, even supposing you 
had the mental qualifications, such a sum, gen- 




44 


The Great Hunger 


erous as it is in itself, would not suffice to carry 
yon far.” 

“No-no, sir.” 

“On the other hand, if you wish it, I will gladly 
arrange to get you an apprentice’s place with a 
good handicraftsman here. You would have free 
board there, and—well, if you should want clothes 
the first year or so, I dare say we could manage 
that. You will he better without pocket-money 
to fling about until you can earn it for your¬ 
self.” 

Peer sighed, and drooped as he stood. When 
he saw the green-hacked book locked into its 
drawer again, and heard the keys rattle as they 
went back into a pocket under the dressing-gown, 
he felt as if some one were pointing a jeering 
finger at him, and saying, “Yah!” 

* ‘ Then there’s another thing. About your name. 
What name have you thought of taking, my lad— 
surname, I mean?” 

“My name is Peer Holm!” said the boy, in¬ 
stinctively drawing himself up as he had done 
when the bishop had patted his head at the con¬ 
firmation and asked his name. 

The schoolmaster pursed up his lips, took off 
his spectacles and wiped them, put them on again, 
and turned to the bookshelves with a sigh. “Ah, 
indeed!—yes—yes—I almost thought as much.” 

Then he came forward and laid a hand kindly 
on Peer’s shoulder. 

“My dear boy—that is out of the question.” 





The Great Hunger 


45 


A shiver went through Peer. Had he done 
something wrong again? 

“See here, my boy—have you considered that 
there may be others of that name in this same 
place ?” 

“Yes—but-” 

“Wait a minute—and that you would occasion 
these—others—the deepest pain and distress if it 
should become known that—well, how matters 
stand. You see, I am treating you as a grown-up 
man—a gentleman. And I feel sure you would not 
wish to inflict a great sorrow—a crushing blow— 
upon a widow and her innocent children. There, 
there, my boy, there’s nothing to cry about. Life, 
my young friend, life has troubles that must be 
faced. What is the name of the farm, or house, 
where you have lived up to now?” 

“T—Troen.” 

“Troen—a very good name indeed. Then from 
to-day on you will call yourself Peer Troen.” 

“Y-yes, sir.” 

“And if any one should ask about your father, 
remember that you are bound in honour and con¬ 
science not to mention your benefactor’s name.” 

“Y-yes.” 

“Well, then, as soon as you have made up your 
mind, come at once and let me know. We shall 
be great friends yet, you will see. You’re sure 
you wouldn’t like to try America? Well, well, 
come along out to the kitchen and see if we can 
find you some breakfast.” 




46 


The Great Hunger 


Peer found himself a moment after sitting on a 
chair in the kitchen, where there was such a good 
smell of coffee. “Bertha,” said the schoolmaster 
coaxingly, “you’ll find something good for break¬ 
fast for my young friend here, won’t you?” He 
waved a farewell with his hand, took down his 
socks from a string above the stove, and disap¬ 
peared through the door again. 





Chapter IV 


When a country boy in blue homespun, with a 
peaked cap on his blond head, goes wandering at 
random through the streets of a town, it is no 
particular concern of any one else. He moves 
along, gazing in at shop windows, hands deep in 
his pockets, whistling, looking at everything 
around him—or at nothing at all. And yet—per¬ 
haps in the head under that peaked cap it seems 
as if a whole little world had suddenly collapsed, 
and he may be whistling hard to keep from cry¬ 
ing in the streets for people to see. He steps 
aside to avoid a cart, and runs into a man, who 
drops his cigar in the gutter. “Confounded 
country lout!” says the man angrily, but passes 
on and has forgotten boy and all the next mo¬ 
ment. But a little farther on a big dog comes 
dashing out of a yard and unluckily upsets a fat 
old woman on the pavement, and the boy with 
the peaked cap, for all his troubles, cannot help 
doubling up and roaring with laughter. 

That afternoon, Peer sat on one of the ramparts 
below the fortress, biting at a stalk of grass, and 
twirling the end in his fingers. Below him lay 
town and fjord in the mild October sunlight; the 
rumble of traffic, the noises from workshops and 




48 


The Great Hunger 


harbour, came up to him through the rust-brown 
luminous haze. There he sat, while the sentry 
on the wall above marched back and forth, with 
his rifle on his shoulder, left—right—left. 

You may climb very high up indeed, and fall 
down very deep, and no such terrible harm done 
after all, as long as you don’t absolutely break 
your neck. And gradually Peer began to realise 
that he was still alive, after all. It is a bad busi¬ 
ness when the world goes against you, even though 
you may have some one to turn to for advice and 
sympathy. But when all the people round you 
are utter strangers, there is nothing to be done 
but sit down and twirl a straw, and think things 
out a bit for yourself. Peer’s thoughts were of 
a thing in a long dressing-gown that had taken 
his bank book and locked it up and rattled the 
keys at him and said “Yah!” and deposed him 
from his bishopric and tried to sneeze and squeeze 
him into a trade, where he’d have to carry a 
pressing-iron all his life and be Peer Troen, 
Tailor. But he wouldn’t have that. He sat there 
bracing himself up, and trying to gather together 
from somewhere a thing he had never had much 
need of before—to wit, a will of his own, some¬ 
thing to set up against the whole wide world. 
What was he to do now? He felt he would like 
to go back to Troen first of all, and talk things 
over with the old father and mother; they would 
be sorry for him there, and say “Poor boy,” and 
pray for him—but after a day or two, he knew, 





The Great Hunger 


49 


they would begin to glance at him at meals, and 
remember that there was no one to pay for him 
now, and that times were hard. No, that was no 
refuge for him now. But what could he do, then? 
Clearly it was not such a simple matter to be all 
alone in the world. 

A little later he found himself on a hillside by 
the Cathedral churchyard, sitting under the yel¬ 
lowing trees, and wondering dreamily where his 
father was to be buried. What a difference be¬ 
tween him and that schoolmaster man! No 
preaching with him; no whining about what his 
boy might call himself or might not. Why must 
he go and die ? 

It was strange to think of that fine strong man, 
who had brushed his hair and beard so carefully 
with his silver-backed brush—to think that he was 
lying still in a coffin now, and would soon be cov¬ 
ered up with earth. 

People were coming up the hill now, and pass¬ 
ing in to the churchyard. The men wore black 
clothes and tall shiny hats—but there were some 
officers too, with plumes and sashes. And then a 
regimental band—with its brass instruments. 
Peer slipped into the churchyard with the crowd, 
but kept apart from the rest, and took up his stand 
a little way off, beside a big monument. “It must 
be father’s funeral,” he thought to himself, and 
was broad awake at once. 

This, he guessed, must be the Cadet School, 
that came marching in, and formed up in two lines 




50 


The Great Hunger 


from the mortuary chapel to the open grave. 
The place was nearly full of people now; there 
were women holding handkerchiefs to their eyes, 
and an elderly lady in black went into the chapel, 
on the arm of a tall man in uniform. ‘ ‘ That must 
be father’s wife,” thought Peer, 46 and the young 
ladies there in black are—my half-sisters, and 
that young lieutenant—my half-brother.” How 
strange it all was! A sound of singing came from 
the chapel. And a little later six sergeants came 
out, carrying a coffin all heaped with flowers. 

* ‘Present arms!” And the soldiers presented, 
and the band played a slow march and moved 
off in front of the coffin, between the two lines 
of soldiers. And then came a great following of 
mourners. The lady in black came out again, 
sobbing behind her handkerchief, and hardly able 
to follow, though she clung to the tall officer’s 
arm. But in front of the pair, just behind the cof¬ 
fin itself, walked a tall man in splendid uniform, 
with gold epaulettes, plumed hat, and sword, bear¬ 
ing a cushion with two jewelled stars. And the 
long, long train of mourners moved slowly, gently 
on, and there—there by the grave, stood the priest, 
holding a spade. 

Peer was anxious to hear what the priest would 
have to say about his father. Involuntarily he 
stole a little nearer, though he felt somehow that 
it would not do to come too close. 

A hymn was sung at the graveside, the band 
accompanying. Peer took off his cap. He was 





The Great Hunger 


51 


too taken up to notice that one of the monmers 
was watching him intently, and presently left the 
group and came towards him. The man wore spec¬ 
tacles, and a shiny tall hat, and it was not until 
he began to sneeze that Peer recognised him. It 
was the schoolmaster, glaring at him now with a 
face so full of horror and fury that the spectacles 
almost seemed to be spitting fire. 

“You—you- Are you mad?” he whispered 

in Peer’s face, clenching his black gloved hands. 
“What are you doing here ? Do you want to cause 
a catastrophe to-day of all days? Go—get away 
at once, do you hear me ? Go! For heaven’s sake, 
get away from here before any one sees.” Peer 
turned and fled, hearing behind him as he went 

a threatening “If ever you dare—again-,” 

while the voices and the band, swelling higher in 
the hymn, seemed to strike him in the back and 
drive him on. 

He was far down in the town before he could 
stop and pull himself together. One thing was 
clear—after this he could never face that school¬ 
master again. All was lost. Could he even be 
sure that what he had done wasn’t so frightfully 
wrong that he would have to go to prison for it? 

Next day the Troen folk were sitting at their 
dinner when the eldest son looked out of the win¬ 
dow and said: “There’s Peer coming.” 

“Mercy on us!” cried the good-wife, as he came 
in. “What is the matter, Peer? Are you ill?” 

Ah, it was good that night to creep in under 




52 


The Great Hunger 


the old familiar skin-rug once more. And the old 
mother sat on the bedside and talked to him of the 
Lord, by way of comfort. Peer clenched his hands 
under the clothes—somehow he thought now of the 
Lord as a sort of schoolmaster in a dressing- 
gown. Yet it was some comfort all the same to 
have the old soul sit there and talk to him. 

Peer had much to put up with in the days that 
followed—much tittering and whispers of “Look! 
there goes the priest / 9 as he went by. At table, 
he felt ashamed of every mouthful he took; he 
hunted for jobs as day-labourer on distant farms 
so as to earn a little to help pay for his keep. 
And when the winter came he would have to do 
as the others did—hire himself out, young and 
small as he was, for the Lofoten fishing. 

But one day after church Klaus Brock drew 
him aside and got him to talk things over at length. 
First, Klaus told him that he himself was going 
away—he was to begin in one of the mechanical 
workshops in town, and go from there to the 
Technical College, to qualify for an engineer. 
And next he wanted to hear the whole truth about 
what had happened to Peer that day in town. 
For when people went slapping their thighs and 
sniggering about the young would-be priest that 
had turned out a beggar, Klaus felt he would 
like to give the lot of them a darned good ham¬ 
mering. 

So the two sixteen-year-old boys wandered up 
and down talking, and in the days to come Peer 





The Great Hunger 


53 


never forgot how his old accomplice in the shark¬ 
fishing had stood by him now. “Do like me,” 
urged Klaus. “You’re a bit of a smith already, 
man; go to the workshops, and read up in your 
spare time for the entrance exam, to the Technical. 
Then three years at the College—the eighteen 
hundred crowns will cover that—and there you 
are, an engineer—and needn’t even owe any one 
a halfpenny.” 

Peer shook his head; he was sure he would never 
dare to show his face before that schoolmaster 
again, much less ask for the money in the bank. 
No; the whole thing was over and done with for 
him. 

“But devil take it, man, surely you can see 
that this ape of a schoolmaster dare not keep you 
out of your money. Let me come with you; we’ll 
go up and tackle him together, and then—then 
you’ll see.” And Klaus clenched his fists and 
thrust out one shoulder fiercely. 

But when January came, there was Peer in oil¬ 
skins, in the foc’s’le of a Lofoten fishing-smack, 
ploughing the long sea-road north to the fishing- 
grounds, in frost and snow-storms. All through 
that winter he lived the fisherman’s life: on land, 
in one of the tiny fisher-booths where a five-man 
crew is packed like sardines in an air so thick you 
can cut it with a knife; at sea, where in a fair 
wind you stand half the day doing nothing and 
freezing stiff the while—and a foul wind means 
out oars, and row, row, row, over an endless plain 




54 


The Great Hunger 


of rolling icy combers; row, row, till one’s hands 
are lumps of bleeding flesh. Peer lived through 
it all, thinking now and then, when he could think 
at all, how the grand gentlefolk had driven him 
out to this life because he was impertinent enough 
to exist. And when the fourteen weeks were past, 
and the Lofoten boats stood into the fjord again 
on a mild spring day, it was easy for Peer to 
reckon out his earnings, which were just nothing 
at all. He had had to borrow money for his out¬ 
fit and food, and he would be lucky if his boy’s 
share was enough to cover what he owed. 

A few weeks later a boy stood by the yard gate 
of an engineering works in the town just as the 
bell was ringing and the men came streaming out, 
and asked for Klaus Brock. 

“Hullo, Peer—that you? Been to Lofoten and 
made your fortune?” 

The two boys stood a moment taking stock of 
one another: Klaus grimy-faced and in working- 
clothes^—Peer weather-beaten and tanned by 
storm and spray. 

The manager of the factory was Klaus’s uncle, 
and the same afternoon his nephew came into the 
office with a new hand wanting to be taken on as 
apprentice. He had done some smithy work be¬ 
fore, he said; and he was taken on forthwith, at 
a wage of twopence an hour. 

4 ‘And what’s your name?” 

“Peer—er”—the rest stuck in his throat. 

“Holm,” put in Klaus. 




The Great Hunger 


55 


“Peer Holm? Very well, that’ll do.” 

The two boys went out with a feeling of having 
done something rather daring. And anyway, if 
trouble should come along, there would be two of 
them now to tackle it. 




Chapter V 


In a narrow alley off Sea Street lived Gorseth the 
job-master, with a household consisting of a lean 
and skinny wife, two half-starved horses, and a 
few ramshackle flies and sledges. The job-master 
himself was a hulking toper with red nose and 
beery-yellow eyes, who spent his nights in drink¬ 
ing and got home in the small hours of the morn¬ 
ing when his wife was just about getting up. All 
through the morning she went about the place 
scolding and storming at him for a drunken ne’er- 
do-well, while Gorseth himself lay comfortably 
snoring. 

When Peer arrived on the scene with his box 
on his shoulder, Gorseth was on his knees in the 
yard, greasing a pair of leather carriage-aprons, 
while his wife, sunken-lipped and fierce-eyed, 
stood in the kitchen doorway, abusing him for a 
profligate, a swine, and the scum of the earth. 
Gorseth lay there on all-fours, with the sun shin¬ 
ing on his bald head, smearing on the grease; 
but every now and then he would lift his head and 
snarl out, “Hold your jaw, you damned old jade!” 

“Haven’t you a room to let?” Peer asked. 

A beery nose was turned towards him, and the 
man dragged himself up and wiped his hands on 
56 




The Great Hunger 


57 


his trousers. “Right you are,” said he, and led 
the way across the yard, up some stairs, and into 
a little room with two panes of glass looking on 
to the street and a half-window on the yard. The 
room had a bed with sheets, a couple of chairs, 
and a table in front of the half-window. Six and 
six a month. Agreed. Peer took it on the spot, 
paid down the first month’s rent, and having got 
rid of the man sat down on his chest and looked 
about him. Many people have never a roof to 
their heads, but here was he, Peer, with a home 
of his own. Outside in the yard the woman had 
begun yelping her abuse again, the horses in 
the stable beneath were stamping and whinnying, 
but Peer had lodged in fisher-booths and peasants’ 
quarters and was not too particular. Here he 
was for the first time in a place of his own, and 
within its walls was master of the house and his 
own master. 

Food was the next thing. He went out and 
bought in supplies, stocking his chest with plain 
country fare. At dinner time he sat on the lid, as 
fishermen do, and made a good solid meal of flat 
bannocks and cold bacon. 

And now he fell-to at his new work. There was 
no question of whether it was what he wanted 
or not; here was a chance of getting up in the 
world, and that without having to beg any one’s 
leave. He meant to get on. And it was not long 
before his dreams began to take a new shape from 
his new life. He stood at the bottom of a ladder. 




58 


The Great Hunger 


a blacksmith’s boy—but up at the top sat a mighty 
Chief Engineer, with gold spectacles and white 
waistcoat. That was where he would be one day. 
And if any schoolmaster came along and tried to 
keep him back this time—well, just let him try it. 
They had turned him out of a churchyard once— 
he would have his revenge for that some day. It 
might take him years and years to do it, but one 
fine day he would be as good as the best of them, 
and would pay them back in full. 

In the misty mornings, as he tramped in to his 
work, dinner-pail in hand, his footsteps on the 
plank bridge seemed hammering out with concen¬ 
trated will: ‘‘ To-day I shall learn something new 
—new—new!” 

The great works down at the harbour—ship¬ 
yard, foundry, and machine shops—were a whole 
city in themselves. And into this world of fire 
and smoke and glowing iron, steam-hammers, rac¬ 
ing wheels, and bustle and noise, he was thrust¬ 
ing his way, intent upon one thing, to learn and 
learn and ever learn. There were plenty of those 
by him who were content to know their way 
about the little corner where they stood—but they 
would never get any farther. They would end 
their days broken-down workmen —he would 
carve his way through till he stood among the 
masters. He had first to put in some months’ 
work in the smithy, then he would be passed on 
to the machine shops, then to work with the car¬ 
penters and painters, and finally in the shipyard. 




The Great Hunger 


59 


The whole thing would take a couple of years. 
But the works and all therein were already a kind 
of new Bible to him; a book of books, which he 
must learn by heart. Only wait! 

And what a place it was for new adventures! 
Many times a day he would find himself gazing 
at some new wonder; sheer miracle and revela¬ 
tion—yet withal no creation of God’s grace, but 
an invention of men. Press a button, and be¬ 
hold, a miracle springs to life. He would stare 
at the things, and the strain of understanding 
them would sometimes keep him awake at night. 
There was something behind this, something that 
must be—spirit, even though it did not come from 
God. These engineers were priests of a sort, 
albeit they did not preach nor pray. It was a new 
world. 

One day he was put to riveting work on an 
enormous boiler, and for the first time found him¬ 
self working with a power that was not the power 
of his own hands. It was a tube, full of com¬ 
pressed air, that drove home the rivets in quick 
succession with a clashing wail from the boiler 
that sounded all over the town. Peer’s head and 
ears ached with the noise, but he smiled all the 
same. He was used to toil himself, in weariness 
of body; now he stood here master, was mind 
and soul and directing will. He felt it now for 
the first time, and it sent a thrill of triumph 
through every nerve of his body. 

But all through the long evenings he sat alone, 




60 


The Great Hunger 


reading, reading, and heard the horses stamping 
in the stable below. And when he crept into bed, 
well after midnight, there was only one thing that 
troubled him—his utter loneliness. Klaus Brock 
lived with his uncle, in a fine house, and went to 
parties. And he lay here all by himself. If he 
were to die that very night, there would be hardly 
a soul to care. So utterly alone he was—in a 
strange and indifferent world. 

Sometimes it helped him a little to think of the 
old mother at Troen, or of the church at home, 
where the vaulted roof had soared so high over 
the swelling organ-notes, and all the faces had 
looked so beautiful. But the evening prayer was 
no longer what it had been for him. There was 
no grey-haired bishop any more sitting at the top 
of the ladder he was to climb. The Chief Engi¬ 
neer that was there now had nothing to do with 
Our Lord, or with life in the world to come. He 
would never come so far now that he could go 
down into the place of torment where his mother 
lay, and bring her up with him, up to salvation. 
And whatever power and might he gained, he 
could never stand in autumn evenings and lift up 
his finger and make all the stars break into song. 

Something was past and gone for Peer. It was 
as if he were rowing away from a coast where red 
clouds hung in the sky and dream-visions filled 
the air—rowing farther and farther away, to¬ 
wards something quite new. A power stronger 
than himself had willed it so. 




The Great Hunger 


61 


One Sunday, as he sat reading, the door opened, 
and Klaus Brock entered whistling, with his cap 
on the back of his head. 

* ‘ Hullo, old boy! So this is where you live ?’ 9 

“Yes, it is—and that’s a chair over there .’ 9 

But Klaus remained standing, with his hands 
in his pockets and his cap on, staring about the 
room. “Well, I’m blest!” he said at last. “If 
he hasn’t stuck up a photograph of himself on 
his table!” 

“Well, did you never see one before? Don’t 
you know everybody has them?” 

“Not their own photos, you ass! If anybody 
sees that, you’ll never hear the last of it.” 

Peer took up the photograph and flung it under 
the bed. ‘ i Well, it was a rubbishy thing, ’ ’ he mut¬ 
tered. Evidently he had made a mistake. “But 
what about this ? ’ ’—pointing to a coloured picture 
he had nailed up on the wall. 

Klaus put on his most manly air and bit off a 
piece of tobacco plug. “Ah! that!” he said, try¬ 
ing not to laugh too soon. 

“Yes; it’s a fine painting, isn’t it? I got it for 
fourpence.” 

“Painting! Ha-ha! that’s good! Why, you 
silly cow, can’t you see it’s only an oleograph?” 

“Oh, of course you know all about it. You 
always do.” 

“I’ll take you along one day to the Art Gal¬ 
lery,” said Klaus. “Then you can see what a 




62 


The Great Hunger 


real painting looks like. What’s that you’ve got 
there—English reader ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” put in Peer eagerly; “hear me say a 
poem.” And before Klaus could protest, he had 
begun to recite. 

When he had finished, Klaus sat for a while in 
silence, chewing his quid. “H’m!” he said at 
last, “if our last teacher, Froken Zebbelin, could 
have heard that English of yours, we’d have had 
to send for a nurse for her, hanged if we 
wouldn’t!” 

This was too much. Peer flung the book against 
the wall and told the other to clear out to the 
devil. When Klaus at last managed to get a word 
in, he said: 

“If you are to pass your entrance at the Techni¬ 
cal you’ll have to have lessons—surely you can 
see that. You must get hold of a teacher.” 

“Easy for you to talk about teachers! Let me 
tell you my pay is twopence an hour. ’ ’ 

“I’ll find you one who can take you twice a week 
or so in languages and history and mathematics. 
I daresay some broken-down sot of a student 
would take you on for sevenpence a lesson. You 
could run to that, surely?” 

Peer was quiet now and a little pensive. * 4 Well, 
if I give up butter, and drink water instead of 
coffee-” 

Klaus laughed, but his eyes were moist. Hard 
luck that he couldn’t offer to lend his comrade a 
few shillings—but it wouldn’t do. 





The Great Hunger 


63 


So the summer passed. On Sundays Peer would 
watch the young folks setting out in the morning 
for the country, to spend the whole day wandering 
in the fields and woods, while he sat indoors over 
his books. And in the evening he would stick his 
head out of his two-paned window that looked on 
to the street, and would see the lads and girls 
coming hack, flushed and noisy, with flowers and 
green boughs in their hats, crazy with sunshine 
and fresh air. And still he must sit and read on. 
But in the autumn, when the long nights set in, 
he would go for a walk through the streets before 
going to bed, as often as not up to the white 
wooden house where the manager lived. This 
was Klaus’s home. Lights in the windows, and 
often music; the happy people that lived here 
knew and could do all sorts of things that could 
never be learned from books. No mistake: he had 
a goodish way to go—a long, long way. But get 
there he would. 

One day Klaus happened to mention, quite casu¬ 
ally, where Colonel Holm’s widow lived, and late 
one evening Peer made his way out there, and cau¬ 
tiously approached the house. It was in Kiver 
Street, almost hidden in a cluster of great trees, 
and Peer stood there, leaning against the garden 
fence, trembling with some obscure emotion. The 
long rows of windows on both floors were lighted 
up; he could hear youthful laughter within, and 
then a young girl’s voice singing—doubtless they 
were having a party. Peer turned up his collar 




64 


The Great Hunger 


against the wind, and tramped back through the 
town to his lodging above the carter’s stable. 

For the lonely working boy Saturday evening 
is a sort of festival. He treats himself to an extra 
wash, gets out his clean underclothes from his 
chest, and changes. And the smell of the newly- 
washed underclothing calls up keenly the thought 
of a pock-marked old woman who sewed and 
patched it all, and laid it away so neatly folded. 
He puts it on carefully, feeling almost as if it 
were Sunday already. 

How and again, when a Sunday seemed too long, 
Peer would drift into the nearest church. What 
the parson said was all very good, no doubt, but 
Peer did not listen; for him there were only the 
hymns, the organ, the lofty vaulted roof, the col¬ 
oured windows. Here, too, the faces of the people 
looked otherwise than in the street without; 
touched, as it were, by some reflection from all 
that their thoughts aspired to reach. And it was 
so homelike here. Peer even felt a sort of kin¬ 
ship with them all, though every soul there was 
a total stranger. 

But at last one day, to his surprise, in the mid¬ 
dle of a hymn, a voice within him whispered sud¬ 
denly: “You should write to your sister. She’s 
as much alone in the world as you are.” 

And one evening Peer sat down and wrote. He 
took quite a lordly tone, saying that if she wanted 
help in any way, she need only let him know. And 
if she would care to move in to town, she could 




The Great Hunger 


65 


come and live with. him. After which he remained, 
her affectionate brother, Peer Holm, engineer ap¬ 
prentice. 

A few days later there came a letter addressed 
in a fine slanting hand. Lonise had just been con¬ 
firmed. The farmer she was with wished to keep 
her on as dairymaid through the winter, but she 
was afraid the work would be too heavy for her. 
So she was coming in to town by the boat arriv¬ 
ing on Sunday evening. With kind regards, his 
sister, Louise Hagen. 

Peer was rather startled. He seemed to have 
taken a good deal on his shoulders. 

On Sunday evening he put on his blue suit and 
stiff felt hat, and walked down to the quay. For 
the first time in his life he had some one else to 
look after—he was to be a father and benefactor 
from now on to some one worse off than himself. 
This was something new. The thought came back 
to him of the jolly gentleman who had come driv¬ 
ing down one day to Troen to look after his little 
son. Yes, that was the way to do things; that 
was the sort of man he would be. And invol¬ 
untarily he fell into something of his father’s look 
and step, his smile, his lavish, careless air. ‘‘Well, 
well—well, well—well, well,” he seemed saying to 
himself. He might almost, in his fancy, have 
had a neat iron-grey beard on his chin. 

The little green steamboat rounded the point 
and lay in to the quay, the gangways were run 
out, porters jumped aboard, and all the passen- 




66 


The Great Hunger 


gers came bundling ashore. Peer wondered how 
he was to know her, this sister whom he had never 
seen. 

The crowd on deck soon thinned, and people be¬ 
gan moving off from the quay into the town. 

Then Peer was aware of a young peasant-girl, 
with a box in one hand and a violin-case in the 
other. She wore a grey dress, with a black ker¬ 
chief over her fair hair; her face was pale, and 
finely cut. It was his mother’s face; his mother 
as a girl of sixteen. Now she was looking about 
her, and now her eyes rested on him, half afraid, 
half inquiring. 

* ‘Is it you, Louise?” 

“Is that you, Peer?” 

They stood for a moment, smiling and measur¬ 
ing each other with their eyes, and then shook 
hands. 

Together they carried the box up through the 
/town, and Peer was so much of a townsman al¬ 
ready that he felt a little ashamed to find himself 
walking through the streets, holding one end of 
a trunk, with a peasant-girl at the other. An d 
what a clatter her thick shoes made on the pave¬ 
ment! But all the time he was ashamed to feel 
ashamed. Those blue arch eyes of hers, con¬ 
stantly glancing up at him, what were they say¬ 
ing? “Yes, I have come,” they said—“and I’ve 
no one but you in all the world—and here I am,” 
they kept on saying. 




The Great Hunger 


67 


“Can you play that?” he asked, with a glance 
at her violin-case. 

“Oh well; my playing’s only nonsense,” she 
laughed. And she told how the old sexton she had 
been living with last had not been able to afford 
a new dress for her confirmation, and had given 
her the violin instead. 

“Then didn’t you have a new dress to he con¬ 
firmed in?” 

“No.” 

“But wasn’t it—didn’t you feel horrible, with 
the other girls standing by you all dressed up 
fine?” 

She shut her eyes for a moment. “Oh, yes—it 
was horrid,” she said. 

A little farther on she asked: “Werfe you 
boarded out at a lot of places?” 

“Five, I think.” 

“Pooh—why, that’s nothing. I was at nine, I 
was.” The girl was smiling again. 

When they came up to his room she stood for 
a moment looking round the place. It was hardly 
what she had expected to find. And she had not 
been in town lodgings before, and her nose wrin¬ 
kled up a little as she smelt the close air. It 
seemed so stuffy, and so dark. 

“We’ll light the lamp,” he said. 

Presently she laughed a little shyly, and asked 
where she was to sleep. 

“Lord bless us, you may well ask!” Peer 




68 


The Great Hunger 


scratched his head. “There’s only one bed, you 
see.” At that they both burst out laughing. 

“The one of us’ll have to sleep on the floor,” 
suggested the girl. 

“Right. The very thing,” said he, delighted. 
“I’ve two pillows; you can have one. And two 
rugs—anyway, you won’t be cold.” 

“And then I can put on my other dress over,” 
she said. “And maybe you’ll have an old over¬ 
coat-” 

“Splendid! So we needn’t bother any more 
about that.” 

“But where do you get your food from?” She 
evidently meant to have everything cleared up at 
once. 

Peer felt rather ashamed that he hadn’t money 
enough to invite her to a meal at an eating-house 
then and there. But he had to pay his teacher’s 
fees the next day; and his store-box wanted re¬ 
filling too. 

“I boil the coffee on the stove there overnight,” 
he said, “so that it’s all ready in the morning. 
And the dry food I keep in that box there. We’ll 
see about some supper now.” He opened the box, 
fished out a loaf and some butter, and put the ket¬ 
tle on the stove. She helped him to clear the pa¬ 
pers off the table, and spread the feast on it. 
There was only one knife, but it was really much 
better fun that way than if he had had two. And 
soon they were seated on their chairs—they had 




The Great Hunger 


69 


a chair each—having their first meal in their own 
home, he and she together. 

It was settled that Louise should sleep on the 
floor, and they both laughed a great deal as he 
tucked her in carefully so that she shouldn’t feel 
cold. It was not till afterwards, when the lamp 
was out, that they noticed that the autumn gales 
had set in, and there was a loud north-wester 
howling over the housetops. And there they lay, 
chatting to each other in the dark, before falling 
asleep. 

It seemed a strange and new thing to Peer, this 
really having a relation of his own—and a girl, 
too—a young woman. There she lay on the floor 
near by him, and from now on he was responsible 
for what was to become of her in the world. How 
should he put that job through? 

He could hear her turning over. The floor was 
hard, very likely. 

“Louise?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you ever see mother?” 

“No.” 

“Or your father?” 

“My father?” She gave a little laugh. 

“Yes, haven’t you ever seen him either?” 

“Why, how should I, silly? Who says that 
mother knew herself who it was?” 

There was a pause. Then Peer brought out, 
rather awkwardly: “We’re all alone, then—you 
and L” 




70 


The Great Hunger 


“Yes—we are that.” 

“Louise! What are you thinking of taking to 
now?” 

“What are you?” 

So Peer told her all his plans. She said nothing 
for a little while—no doubt she was lying thinking 
of the grand things he had before him. 

At last she spoke. “Do you think—does it cost 
very much to learn to be a midwife ?’ 9 

‘ ‘ A midwife—is that what you want to be, girl ? 9 9 
Peer couldn’t help laughing. So this was what 
she had been planning in these days—since he had 
offered to help her on in the world. 

“Do you think my hands are too big?” she ven¬ 
tured presently—he could just hear the whisper. 

Peer felt a pang of pity. He had noticed al¬ 
ready how ill the red swollen hands matched her 
pale clear-cut face, and he knew that in the coun¬ 
try, when any one has small, fine hands, people 
call them “midwife’s hands.” 

“We’ll manage it somehow, I daresay,” said 
Peer, turning round to the wall. He had heard 
that it cost several hundred crowns to go through 
the course at the midwifery school. It would be 
years before he could get together anything like 
that sum. Poor girl, it looked as if she would 
have a long time to wait. 

After that they fell silent. The north-wester 
roared over the housetops, and presently brother 
and sister were asleep. 

When Peer awoke the next morning, Louise 




The Great Hunger 


71 


was about already, making coffee over the little 
stove. Then she opened her box, took out a yel¬ 
low petticoat and hung it on a nail, placed a pair u 
of new shoes against the wall, lifted out some 
under-linen and woollen stockings, looked at them, 
and put them back again. The little box held all 
her worldly goods. 

As Peer was getting up: “Gracious mercy!” 
she cried suddenly, “what is that awful noise 
down in the yard?” 

“Oh, that’s nothing to worry about,” said 
Peer. “It’s only the job-master and his wife. 
They carry on like that every blessed morning; 
you’ll soon get used to it.” 

Soon they were seated once more at the little 
table, drinking coffee and laughing and looking at 
each other. Louise had found time to do her hair 
—the two fair plaits hung down over her shoul¬ 
ders. 

It was time for Peer to be off, and, warning 
the girl not to go too far from home and get lost, 
he ran down the stairs. 

At the works he met Klaus Brock, and told him 
that his sister had come to town. 

“But what are you going to do with her?” 
asked Klaus. 

“Oh, she’ll stay with me for the present.” 

‘ ‘ Stay with you ? But you’ve only got one room 
and one bed, man!” 

“Well—she can sleep on the floor.” 




72 


The Great Hunger 


“She? Your sister? She’s to sleep on the floor 
—and yon in the bed! ’ ’ gasped Klaus. 

Peer saw he had made a mistake again. “Of 
course I was only fooling,” he hastened to say. 
“Of course it’s Louise that’s to have the bed.” 

When he came home he found she had borrowed 
a frying-pan from the carter’s wife, and had 
fried some bacon and boiled potatoes; so that they 
sat down to a dinner fit for a prince. 

But when the girl’s eyes fell on the coloured 
print on the wall, and she asked if it was a paint¬ 
ing, Peer became very grand at once. “That—a 
painting? Why, that’s only an oleograph, silly! 
No, I’ll take you along to the Art Gallery one day, 
and show you what real paintings are like. ’ ’ And 
he sat drumming with his fingers on the table, 
and saying: 4 4 Well, well—well, well, well! ’ ’ 

They agreed that Louise had better look out at 
once for some work to help things along. And at 
the first eating-house they tried, she was taken on 
at once in the kitchen to wash the floor and peel 
potatoes. 

When bedtime came he insisted on Louise tak¬ 
ing the bed. 44 Of course all that was only a joke 
last night,” he explained. 44 Here in town women 
always have the best of everything—that’s what’s 
called manners.” As he stretched himself on the 
hard floor, he had a strange new feeling. The 
narrow little garret seemed to have widened out 
now that he had to find room in it for a guest. 
There was something not unpleasant even in lying 




The Great Hunger 


73 


on the hard floor, since he had chosen to do it for 
some one else’s sake. 

After the lamp was out he lay for a while, lis¬ 
tening to her breathing. Then at last: 

“Louise.” 

“Yes?” 

“Is your father—was his name Hagen?” 

“Yes. It says so on the certificate.” 

“Then you’re Froken Hagen. Sounds quite 
fine, doesn’t it?” 

“Uf! Now you’re making fun of me.” 

“And when you’re a midwife, Froken Hagen 
might quite well marry a doctor, you know.” 

“Silly! There’s no chance—with hands like 
mine. ’ ’ 

“Do you think your hands are too big for you 
to marry a doctor?” 

“Uf! you are a crazy thing. Ha-ha-ha!” 

“Ha-ha-ha!” 

They both snuggled down under the clothes, 
with the sense of ease and peace that comes from 
sharing a room with a good friend in a happy 
humour. 

“Well, good-night, Louise.” 

“Good-night, Peer.” 




Chapter VI 


So things went on till winter was far spent. Now 
that Louise, too, was a wage-earner, and could 
help with the expenses, they could dine luxuriously 
at an eating-house every day, if they pleased, on 
meat-cakes at fourpence a portion. They man¬ 
aged to get a bed for Peer that could be folded 
up during the day, and soon learned, too, that 
good manners required they should hang up 
Louise’s big woollen shawl between them as a 
modest screen while they were dressing and un¬ 
dressing. And Louise began to drop her country 
speech and talk city-fashion like her brother. 

One thought often came to Peer as he lay awake. 
“The girl is the very image of mother, that’s cer¬ 
tain—what if she were to go the same way? Well, 
no, that she shall not. You’re surely man enough 
to see to that. Nothing of that sort shall happen, 
my dear Froken Hagen.” 

They saw but little of each other during the day, 
though, for they were apart from early in the 
morning till he came home in the evening. And 
when he lectured her, and warned her to be care¬ 
ful and take no notice of men who tried to speak 
to her, Louise only laughed. When Klaus Brock 
came up one day to visit them, and made great 

74 




The Great Hunger 


75 


play with his eyes while he talked to her, Peer 
felt much inclined to take him by the scruff of 
the neck and throw him downstairs. 

When Christmas-time was near they would 
wander in the long evenings through the streets 
and look in at the dazzlingly lit shop-windows, 
with their tempting, glittering show of gold and 
finery. Louise kept asking continually how much 
he thought this thing or that cost—that lace, or 
the cloak, or the stockings, or those gold brooches. 
“Wait till you marry that doctor/’ Peer would 
say, “then you can buy all those things.” So 
far neither of them had an overcoat, but Peer 
turned up his coat-collar when he felt cold, and 
Louise made the most of her thick woollen dress 
and a pair of good country gloves that kept her 
quite warm. And she had adventured on a hat 
now, in place of her kerchief, and couldn’t help 
glancing round, thinking people must notice how 
fine she was. 

On Christmas Eve he carried up buckets of 
water from the yard, and she had a great scrub¬ 
bing-out of the whole room. And then they in 
their turn had a good wash, helping each other in 
country fashion to scrub shoulders and back. 

Peer was enough of a townsman now to have 
laid in a few little presents to give his sister; but 
the girl, who had not been used to such doings, 
had nothing for him, and wept a good deal when 
she realised it. They ate cakes from the confec¬ 
tioner’s with syrup over them, and drank choco- 




76 


The Great Hunger 


late, and then Lonise played a hymn-tune, in her 
best style, on her violin, and Peer read the Christ¬ 
mas lessons from the prayer-book—it was all just 
like what they used to do at Troen on Christmas 
Eve. And that night, after the lamp was put out, 
they lay awake talking over plans for the future. 
They promised each other that when they had 
got well on in the world, he in his line and she 
in hers, they would manage to live near each other, 
so that their children could play together and 
grow up good friends. Didn’t she think that was 
a good idea? Yes, indeed she did. And did he 
really mean it? Yes, of course he meant it, really. 

But later on in the winter, when she sat at home 
in the evenings waiting for him—he often worked 
overtime—she was sometimes almost afraid. 
There was his step on the stairs! If it was hur¬ 
ried and eager she would tremble a little. For 
the moment he was inside the door he would burst 
out: ‘ 4 Hurrah, my girl! I’ve learnt something 
new to-day, I tell you!” 4 ‘Have you, Peer?” 
And then out would pour a torrent of talk about 
motors and power and pressures and cylinders 
and cranes and screws, and such-like. She would 
sit and listen and smile, but of course understood 
not a word of it all, and as soon as Peer discovered 
this he would get perfectly furious, and call her 
a little blockhead. 

Then there were the long evenings when he sat 
at home reading, by himself or with his teacher, 
and she had to sit so desperately still that she 




The Great Hunger 


77 


hardly dared take a stitch with her needle. But 
one day he took it into his head that his sister 
ought to be studying too; so he set her a piece 
of history to learn by the next evening. But time 
to learn it—where was that to come from? And 
then he started her writing to his dictation, to 
improve her spelling—and all the time she kept 
dropping off to sleep. She had washed so many 
floors and peeled so many potatoes in the daytime 
that now her body felt like lead. 

“Look here, my fine girl!” he would storm at 
her, raging up and down the room, “if you think 
you can get on in the world without education, 
you’re most infernally mistaken.” He succeeded 
in reducing her to tears—but it wasn’t long be¬ 
fore her head had fallen forward on the table 
again and she was fast asleep. So he realised 
there was nothing for it but to help her to bed—- 
as quietly as possible, so as not to wake her up. 

Some way on in the spring Peer fell sick. When 
the doctor came, he looked round the room, 
sniffed, and frowned. “Ho you call this a place 
for human beings to live in?” he asked Louise, 
who had taken the day off. ‘ ‘ How can you expect 
to keep well?” 

He examined Peer, who lay coughing, his face 
a burning red. “Yes, yes—just as I expected. 
Inflammation of the lungs.” He glanced round 
the room once more. “Better get him off to the 
hospital at once,” he said. 

Louise sat there in terror at the idea that Peer 




78 


The Great Hunger 


was to be taken away. And then, as the doctor 
was going, he looked at her more closely, and said: 
“You’d do well to be a bit careful yourself, my 
good girl. You look as if you wanted a change 
to a decent room, with a little more light and air, 
pretty badly. Good-morning.” 

Soon after he was gone the hospital ambulance 
arrived. Peer was carried down the stairs on a 
stretcher, and the green-painted box on wheels 
opened its door and swallowed him up; and they 
would not even let her go with him. All through 
the evening she sat in their room alone, sobbing. 

The hospital was one of the good old-fashioned 
kind that people don’t come near if they can help 
it, because the walls seem to reek of the discom¬ 
fort and wretchedness that reign inside. The 
general wards—where the poor folks went—were 
always so overcrowded that patients with all sorts 
of different diseases had to be packed into the 
same rooms, and often infected each other. When 
an operation was to be performed, things were 
managed in the most cheerfully casual way: the 
patient was laid on a stretcher and carried across 
the open yard, often in the depth of winter, and 
as he was always covered up with a rug, the others 
usually thought he was being taken off to the 
dead-house. 

When Peer opened his eyes, he was aware of a 
man in a white blouse standing by the foot of his 
bed. “Why, I believe he’s coming-to,” said the 
man, who seemed to be a doctor. Peer found out 




The Great Hunger 


79 


afterwards from a nurse that he had been uncon¬ 
scious for more than twenty-four hours. 

He lay there, day after day, conscious of noth¬ 
ing but the stabbing of a red-hot iron boring 
through his chest and cutting off his breathing. 
Some one would come every now and then and 
pour port wine and naphtha into his mouth; and 
morning and evening he was washed carefully 
with warm water by gentle hands. But little by 
little the room grew lighter, and his gruel began 
to have some taste. And at last he began to dis¬ 
tinguish the people in the beds near by, and to 
chat with them. 

On his right lay a black-haired, yellow-faced 
dock labourer with a broken nose. His disease, 
whatever it might be, was clearly different from 
Peer’s. He plagued the nurse with foul-mouthed 
complaints of the food, swearing he would report 
about it. On the other side lay an emaciated cob¬ 
bler with a soft brown beard like the Christ pic¬ 
tures, and cheeks glowing with fever. He was 
dying of cancer. At right angles with him lay 
a man with the face and figure of a prophet—a 
Moses—all bushy white hair and beard; he was 
in the last stage of consumption, and his cough 
was like a riveting machine. “Huh!” he would 
groan, “if only I could get across to Germany 
there’d be a chance for me yet.” Beside him was 
a fellow with short beard and piercing eyes, who 
was a little off his head, and imagined himself a 
corporal of the Guards. Often at night the others 




80 


The Great Hunger 


would be wakened by bis springing upright in bed 
and calling ont: “Attention!” 

One man lay moaning and groaning all the time, 
turning from side to side of a body covered with 
sores. But one day he managed to swallow some 
of the alcohol they used as lotion, and after that 
lay singing and weeping alternately. And there 
was a red-bearded man with glasses, a commer¬ 
cial traveller; he had put a bullet into his head, 
but the doctors had managed to get it out again, 
and now he lay and praised the Lord for his 
miraculous deliverance. 

It was strange to Peer to lie awake at night in 
this great room in the dim light of the night-lamp; 
it seemed as if beings from the land of the dead 
were stirring in those beds round about him. But 
in the daytime, when friends and relations of the 
patients came a-visiting, Peer could hardly keep 
from crying. The cobbler had a wife and a little 
girl who came and sat beside him, gazing at him 
as if they could never let him go. The prophet, 
too, had a wife, who wept inconsolably—and all 
the rest seemed to have some one or other to 
care for them. But where was Louise—why did 
Louise never come? 

The man on the right had a sister, who came 
sweeping in, gorgeous in her trailing soiled silk 
dress. Her shoes were down at heel, but her hat 
was a wonder, with enormous plumes. “Hallo, 
Ugly! how goes it?” she said; and sat down and 
crossed her legs. Then the pair would talk mys- 




The Great Hwnger 


81 


terioxisly of people with strange names: “The 
Flea,” “Cockroach,” “The Galliot,” “King 
Bing,” and the like, evidently friends of theirs. 
One day she managed to bring in a small bottle 
of brandy, a present from “The Hedgehog,” and 
smuggle it under the bedclothes. As soon as she 
had gone, and the coast was clear, Peer’s neigh¬ 
bour drew out the bottle, managed to work the 
cork out, and offered him a drink. “Here’s luck, 
sonny; do you good.” No—Peer would rather 
not. Then followed a gurgling sound from the 
docker’s bed, and soon he too was lying singing 
at the top of his voice. 

At last one day Louise came. She was wearing 
her neat hat, and had a little bundle in her hand, 
and as she came in, looking round the room, the 
close air of the sick-ward seemed to turn her a 
little faint. But then she caught sight of Peer, 
and smiled, and came cautiously to him, holding 
out her hand. She was astonished to find him so 
changed. But as she sat down by his pillow she 
was still smiling, though her eyes were full of 
tears. 

“So you’ve come at last, then?” said Peer. 

“They wouldn’t let me in before,” she said with 
a sob. And then Peer learned that she had come 
there every single day, but only to be told that 
he was too ill to see visitors. 

The man with the broken nose craned his head 
forward to get a better view of the modest young 
girl. And meanwhile she was pulling out of the 




82 The Great Hunger 

bundle the offering she had brought—a bottle of 
lemonade and some oranges. 

But it was a day or two later that something 
happened which Peer was often to remember in 
the days to come. 

He had been dozing through the afternoon, 
and when he woke the lamp was lit, and a dull 
yellow half-light lay over the ward. The others 
seemed to be sleeping; all was very quiet, only 
the man with the sores was whimpering softly. 
Then the door opened, and Peer saw Louise glide 
in, softly and cautiously, with her violin-case 
under her arm. She did not come over to where 
her brother lay, but stood in the middle of the 
ward, and, taking out her violin, began to play 
the Easter hymn: “The mighty host in white 
array. ’’ 1 

The man with the sores ceased whimpering; the 
patients in the beds round about opened their 
eyes. The docker with the broken nose sat up in 
bed, and the cobbler, roused from his feverish 
dream, lifted himself on his elbow and whispered: 
“It is the Redeemer. I knew Thou wouldst 
come.” Then there was silence. Louise stood 
there with eyes fixed on her violin, playing her 
simple best. The consumptive raised his head and 
forgot to cough; the corporal slowly stiffened his 
body to attention; the commercial traveller 
folded his hands and stared before him. The 
simple tones of the hymn seemed to be giving 

1 “Den store hvide Flok vi se.” 





The Great Hunger 


83 


new life to all these unfortunates; the light of it 
was in their faces. But to Peer, watching his sis¬ 
ter as she stood there in the half-light, it seemed 
as if she grew to he one with the hymn itself, and 
that wings to soar were given her. 

When she had finished, she came softly over to 
his bed, stroked his forehead with her swollen 
hand, then glided out and disappeared as silently 
as she had come. 

For a long time all was silent in the dismal 
ward, until at last the dying cobbler murmured: 
“1 thank Thee. I knew—I knew Thou wert not 
far away.” 

When Peer left the hospital, the doctor said 
he had better not begin work again at once; he 
should take a holiday in the country and pick up 
his strength. “Easy enough for you to talk,” 
thought Peer, and a couple of days later he was 
at the workshop again. 

But his ways with his sister were more con¬ 
siderate than before, and he searched about until 
he had found her a place as seamstress, and saved 
her from her heavy floor-scrubbing. 

And soon Louise began to notice with delight 
that her hands were much less red and swollen 
than they had been; they were actually getting 
soft and pretty by degrees. 

Next winter she sat at home in the evenings 
while he read, and made herself a dress and cloak 
and trimmed a new hat, so that Peer soon had 
quite an elegant young lady to walk out with. 




84 


The Great Hunger 


But when men turned round to look at her as she 
passed, he would scowl and clench his fists. At 
last one day this was too much for Louise, and 
she rebelled. “Now, Peer, I tell you plainly I 
won’t go out with you if you go on like that.” 

“All right, my girl,” he growled. “I’ll look 
after you, though, never fear. We’re not going 
to have mother’s story over again with you.” 

“Well, hut, after all, I’m a grown-up-girl, and 
you can’t prevent people looking at me, idiot!” 

Klaus Brock had been entered at the Technical 
College that autumn, and went about now with 
the College badge in his cap, and sported a walk¬ 
ing-stick and a cigarette. He had grown into a 
big, broad-shouldered fellow, and walked with a 
little swing in his step; a thick shock of black 
hair fell over his forehead, and he had a way of 
looking about him as if to say: “Anything the 
matter? All right, I’m ready!” 

One evening he came in and asked Louise to go 
with him to the theatre. The young girl blushed 
red with joy, and Peer could not refuse; but he 
was waiting for them outside the yard gate when 
they came back. On a Sunday soon after Klaus 
was there again, asking her to come out for a 
drive. This time she did not even look to Peer for 
leave, but said “yes” at once. “Just you wait,” 
said Peer to himself. And when she came back 
that evening he read her a terrific lecture. 

Soon he could not help seeing that the girl was 
going about with half-shut eyes, dreaming dreams 




The Great Hunger 


85 


of which she would never speak to him. And as 
the days went on her hands grew whiter, and she 
moved more lightly, as if to the rhythm of un¬ 
heard music. Always as she went about the 
room on her household tasks she was crooning 
some song; it seemed that there was some joy 
in her soul that must find an outlet. 

One Saturday in the late spring she had just 
come home, and was getting the supper, when 
Peer came tramping in, dressed in his best and 
carrying a parcel. 

‘ ‘ Hi, girl! Here you are! We ’re going to have 
a rare old feast to-night.” 

“Why—what is it all about?” 

“I’ve passed my entrance exam, for the Tech¬ 
nical—hurrah! Next autumn—next autumn—I’ll 
be a student!” 

6 1 Oh, splendid! I am so glad! ’’ And she dried 
her hand and grasped his. 

“Here you are—sausages, anchovies—and 
here’s a bottle of brandy—the first I ever bought 
in my life. Klaus is coming up later on to have 
a glass of toddy. And here’s cheese. We’ll 
make things hum to-night.” 

Klaus came, and the two youths drank toddy 
and smoked and made speeches, and Louise played 
patriotic songs on her violin, and Klaus gazed at 
her and asked for “more—more.” 

When he left, Peer went with him, and as the 
two walked down the street, Klaus took his 
friend’s arm, and pointed to the pale moon rid- 




86 


The Great Hunger 


ing high above the fjord, and vowed never to 
give him np, till he stood at the very top of the 
tree—never, never! Besides, he was a Socialist 
now, he said, and meant to raise a revolt against 
all class distinctions. And Louise—Louise was 
the most glorious girl in all the world—and now 
—and now—Peer might just as well know it 
sooner as later—they were as good as engaged 
to be married, he and Louise. 

Peer pushed him away, and stood staring at 
him. “Go home now, and go to bed,” he said. 

“Ha! You think I’m not man enough to defy 
my people—to defy the whole world!” 

“Good-night,” said Peer. 

Next morning, as Louise lay in bed—she had 
asked to have her breakfast there for once in a 
way—she suddenly began to laugh. “What are 
you about now?” she asked teasingly. 

“Shaving,” said Peer, beginning operations. 

“Shaving! Are you so desperate to be grand 
to-day that you must scrape all your skin off? 
You know there’s nothing else to shave.” 

“You hold your tongue. Little do you know 
what I’ve got in front of me to-day.” 

“What can it be? You’re not going courting 
an old widow with twelve children, are you?” 

“If you want to know, I’m going to that school¬ 
master fellow, and going to wring my savings- 
bank book out of him.” 

Louise sat up at this. “My great goodness!” 
she said. 




The Great Hunger 


87 


Yes; lie had been working himself up to this for 
a year or more, and now he was going to do it. 
To-day he would show what he was made of— 
whether he was a snivelling child, or a man that 
could stand up to any dressing-gown in the world. 
He was shaving for the first time—quite true. 
And the reason was that it was no ordinary day, 
hut a great occasion. 

His toilet over, he put on his best hat with a 
flourish, and set out. 

Louise stayed at home all the morning, waiting 
for his return. And at last she heard him on the 
stairs. 

“Pub!” he said, and stood still in the middle 
of the room. 

“Well? Did you get it?” 

He laughed, wiped his forehead, and drew a 
green-covered hook from his coat-pocket. “Here 
we are, my girl—there’s fifty crowns a month for 
three years. It’s going to he a bit of a pinch, with 
fees and books, and living and clothes into the 
bargain. But we’ll do it. Father was one of the 
right sort, I don’t care what they say.” 

“But how did you manage it? What did the 
schoolmaster say?” 

“ ‘Do you suppose that you—you with your 
antecedents—could ever pass into the Technical 
College?’ he said. And I told him I had passed. 
‘Good heavens! How could you possibly qualify?’ 
and he shifted his glasses down his nose. And 
then: ‘Oh, no! it’s no good coming here with tales 




88 


The Great Hunger 


of that sort, my lad.’ Well, then I showed him 
the certificate, and he got much meeker. ‘Really !’ 
he said, and ‘Dear me!’ and all that. But I say, 
Louise—there’s another Holm entered for the 
autumn term.” 

“Peer, you don’t mean—your half-brother?” 

“And old Dressing-gown said it would never 
do—never! But I said it seemed to me there must 
be room in the world for me as well, and I’d like 
that bank book now, I said. ‘You seem to fancy 
you have some legal right to it,’ he said, and got 
perfectly furious. Then I hinted that I’d rather 
ask a lawyer about it and make sure, and at that 
he regularly boiled with rage and waved his arms 
all about. But he gave in pretty soon all the 
same—said he washed his hands of the whole 
thing. ‘And besides,’ he said, ‘your name’s 
Troen, you know—Peer Troen.’ Ho-ho-ho—Peer 
Troen! Wouldn’t he like it! Tra-la-la-la!—I say, 
let’s go out and get a little fresh air.” 

Peer said nothing then or after about Klaus 
Brock, and Klaus himself was going off home for 
the summer holidays. As the summer wore on 
the town lay baking in the heat, reeking of drains, 
and the air from the stable came up to the couple 
in the garret so heavy and foul that they were 
sometimes nearly stifled. 

“I’ll tell you what,” said Peer one day, “we 
really must spend a few shillings more on house 
rent and get a decent place to live in.” 

And Louise agreed. For till the time came for 




The Great Hunger 


89 


him to join the College in the antnmn, Peer was 
obliged to stick to the workshops; he could not 
afford a holiday just now. 

One morning he was just starting with a work¬ 
ing gang down to Stenkjser to repair some dam¬ 
age in the engine-room of a big Russian grain boat, 
when Louise came and asked him to look at her 
throat. “It hurts so here,” she said. 

Peer took a spoon and pressed down her tongue, 
but could not see anything wrong. ‘ 4 Better go and 
see the doctor, and make sure,” he said. 

But the girl made light of it. 6 ‘ Oh, nonsense! ’’ 
she said; “it’s not worth troubling about.” 

Peer was away for over a week, sleeping on 
board with the rest. When he came back, he hur¬ 
ried home, suddenly thinking of Louise and her 
sore throat. He found the job-master greasing 
the wheels of a carriage, while his wife leaned out 
of a window scolding at him. “Your sister,” re¬ 
peated the carter, turning round his face with its 
great red lump of nose—“she’s gone to hospital— 
diphtheria hospital—she has. Doctor was here 
over a week ago and took her off. They’ve been 
here since poking round and asking who she was 
and where she belonged—well, we didn’t know. 
And asking where you were, too—and we didn’t 
know either. She was real bad, if you ask 


Peer hastened off. It was a hot day, and the 
air was close and heavy. On he went—all down 
the whole length of Sea Street, through the fisher- 





90 


The Great Hunger 


men’s quarter, and a good way further out round 
the bay. And then he saw a cart coming towards 
him, an ordinary work-cart, with a coffin on it. 
The driver sat on the cart, and another man 
walked behind, hat in hand. Peer ran on, and at 
last came in sight of the long yellow building at 
the far end of the bay. He remembered all the 
horrible stories he had heard about the treatment 
of diphtheria patients—how their throats had to 
be cut open to give them air, or something burned 
out of them with red-hot irons—oh! When at 
last he had reached the high fence and rung the 
bell, he stood breathless and dripping with sweat, 
leaning against the gate. 

There was a sound of steps within, a key was 
turned, and a porter with a red moustache and 
freckles about his hard blue eyes thrust out his 
head. 

“ What d’you want to go ringing like that for?” 

“Froken Hagen—Louise Hagen—is she better? 
How—how is she?” 

“Lou—Louise Hagen? A girl called Louise 
Hagen? Is it her you’ve come to ask about?” 

“ Yes. She’s my sister. Tell me—or—let me in 
to see her.” 

‘ 4 Wait a bit. You don’t mean a girl that was 
brought in here about a week ago ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, yes—but let me in.” 

“We’ve had no end of bother and trouble about 
that girl, trying to find out where she came from, 
and if she had people here. But, of course, this 




The Great Hunger 


91 


weather, we couldn’t possibly keep her any longer. 
Didn’t you meet a coffin on a cart as you came 
along!” 

“What—what—you don’t mean-f” 

“Well, you should have come before, you know. 
She did ask a lot for some one called Peer. And 
she got the matron to write somewhere—wasn’t 
it to Levanger! Were you the fellow she was ask¬ 
ing for! So you came at last! Oh, well—she died 
four or five days ago. And they’re just gone now 
to bury her, in St. Mary’s Churchyard.” 

Peer turned round and looked out over the bay 
at the town, that lay sunlit and smoke-wreathed 
beyond. Towards the town he began to walk, but 
his step grew quicker and quicker, and at last he 
took off his cap and ran, panting and sobbing as 
he went. Have I been drinking! was the thought 
that whirled through his brain, or why can’t I 
wake! What is it! What is it! And still he ran. 
There was no cart in sight as yet; the little streets 
of the fisher-quarter were all twists and turns. 
At last he reached Sea Street once more, and there 
—there far ahead was the slow-moving cart. Al¬ 
most at once it turned off to the right and disap¬ 
peared, and when Peer reached the turning, it was 
not to be seen. Still he ran on at haphazard. 
There seemed to be other people in the streets— 
children flying red balloons, women with baskets, 
men with straw hats and walking-sticks. But Peer 
marked his line, and ran forward, thrusting people 
aside, upsetting those in his way, and dashing on 




92 


The Great Hunger 


again. In King Street he came in sight of the 
cart once more, nearer this time. The man walk¬ 
ing behind it with his hat in his hand had red curl¬ 
ing hair, and walked with a curtsying gait, giving 
at the knees and turning out his toes. No doubt 
he made his living as mourner at funerals to which 
no other mourners came. As the cart turned into 
the churchyard Peer came up with it, and tried to 
follow at a walk, but stumbled and could hardly 
keep his feet. The man behind the cart looked at 
him. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked. 
The driver looked round, but drove on again at 
once. 

The cart stopped, and Peer stood by, leaning 
against a tree for support. A third man came up 
—he seemed to be the gravedigger—and he heard 
the three discussing how long they might have to 
wait for the parson. “The time’s just about up, 
isn’t it?” said the driver, taking out his watch. 
“Ay, the clerk said he’d be here by now,” agreed 
the gravedigger, and blew his nose. 

Soon the priest came in sight, wearing his black 
robe and white ruff; there were doubtless to be 
other funerals that day. Peer sank down on a 
bench and looked stupidly on while the coffin was 
lifted from the cart, carried to the grave, and low¬ 
ered down. A man with spectacles and a red nose 
came up with a hymn-book, and sang something 
over the grave. The priest lifted the spade—and 
at the sound of the first spadeful of earth falling 




The Great Hunger 


93 


on Louise’s coffin, Peer started as if struck, and all 
but fell from his seat. 

When he looked np again, the place was de¬ 
serted. The bell was ringing, and a crowd was 
collecting in another part of the churchyard. Peer 
sat where he was, quite still. 

In the evening, when the gravedigger came to 
lock the gates, he had to take the young man by 
the shoulder and shake him to his senses. “Lock¬ 
ing-up time , 9f he said. “You must go now . 91 

Peer rose and tried to walk, and by and by he 
was stumbling blindly out through the gate and 
down the street. And after a time he found him¬ 
self climbing a flight of stairs above a stable-yard. 
Once in his room, he flung himself down on the bed 
as he was, and lay there still. 

The close heat of the day had broken in a down¬ 
pour of rain, which drummed upon the roof above 
his head, and poured in torrents through the gut¬ 
ters. Instinctively Peer started up: Louise was 
out in the rain—she would need her cloak. He 
was on his feet in a moment, as if to find it—then 
he stopped short, and sank slowly back upon the 
bed. 

He drew up his feet under him, and buried his 
head in his arms. His brain was full of changing, 
hurrying visions, of storm and death, of human 
beings helpless in a universe coldly and indiffer¬ 
ently ruled by a will that knows no pity. 

Then for the first time it was as if he lifted up 




94 


The Great Hunger 


his head against Heaven itself and cried: ‘‘ There 
is no sense in all this. I will not hear it.” 

Later in the night, when he found himself me¬ 
chanically folding his hands for the evening prayer 
he had learnt to say as a child, he suddenly hurst 
out laughing, and clenched his fists, and cried 
aloud: “No, no, no—never—never again.” 

On'ce more it came to him that there was some¬ 
thing in God like the schoolmaster—He took the 
side of those who were well off already. “Yes, 
they who have parents and home and brothers and 
sisters and worldly goods—them I protect and 
care for. But here’s a hoy alone in the world, 
struggling and fighting his way on as best he can 
—from him I will take the only thing he has. That 
hoy is nothing to any one. Let him he punished 
because he is poor, and cast down to the earth, 
for there is none to care for him. That boy is 
nothing to any one—nothing.” Oh, oh, oh!—he 
clenched his fists and heat them against the wall. 

His whole little world was broken to pieces. 
Either God did not exist at all, or He was cold 
and pitiless—one way of it was as had as the 
other. The heavenly country dissolved into cloud 
and melted away, and above was nothing hut 
empty space. No more folding of your hands, like 
a fool! Walk on the earth, and lift up your head, 
and defy Heaven and fate, as you defied the school¬ 
master. Your mother has no need of you to save 
her—she is not anywhere any more. She is dead 
—dead and turned to clay; and more than that 




The Great Hunger 


95 


there is not, for her or for yon or any other being 
in this world. 

Still he lay there. He would fain have slept, 
but seemed instead to sink into a vague far-away 
twilight that rocked him—rocked him on its dark 
and golden waves. And now he heard a sound— 
what was it? A violin. “The mighty host in 
white array.’’ Louise—is it you—and playing? 
He could see her now, out there in the twilight. 
How pale she was! But still she played. And 
now he understood what that twilight was. 

It was a world beyond the consciousness of daily 
life—and that world belonged to him. “Peer, let 
me stay here. ’ ’ And something in him answered: 
“Yes, you shall stay, Louise. Even though there 
is no God and no immortality, you shall stay 
here.” And then she smiled. And still she 
played. And it was as though he were building 
a little vaulted chapel for her in defiance of 
Heaven and of God—as though he were ringing 
out with his own hands a great eternal chime for 
her sake. What was happening to him? There 
was none to comfort him, yet it ended, as he lay 
there, with his pouring out something of his inner¬ 
most being, as an offering to all that lives, to the 
earth and the stars, until all seemed rocking, rock¬ 
ing with him on the stately waves of the psalm. 
He lay there with fast-closed eyes, stretching out 
his hands as though afraid to wake, and find it all 
nothing but a beautiful dream. 




Chapter VII 


The two-o’clock bell at tbe Technical College had 
just begun to ring, and a stream of students ap¬ 
peared out of the long straggling buildings and 
poured through the gate, breaking up then into 
little knots and groups that went their several 
ways into the town. 

It was a motley crowd of young men of all ages 
from seventeen to thirty or more. Students of 
the everlasting type, sent here by their parents as 
a last resource, for—“he can always be an engi¬ 
neer”; young sparks who paid more attention to 
their toilet than their books, and hoped to “get 
through somehow” without troubling to work; and 
stiff youths of soldierly bearing, who had been 
ploughed for the Army, but who likewise could 
“always be engineers.” There were peasant-lads 
who had crammed themselves through their Inter¬ 
mediate at a spurt, and now wore the College cap 
above their rough grey homespun, and dreamed of 
getting through in no time, and turning into great 
men with starched cuffs and pince-nez. There 
were pale young enthusiasts, too, who would prob¬ 
ably end as actors; and there were also quondam 
actors, killed by the critics, but still sufficiently 
alive, it seemed, “to be engineers.” And as the 
96 




The Great Hunger 


97 


young fellows hurried on their gay and careless 
way through the town, an older man here and 
there might look round after them with a smile of 
some sadness. It was easy to say what fate 
awaited most of them. College ended, they would 
be scattered like birds of passage throughout the 
wide world, some to fall by sunstroke in Africa, 
or be murdered by natives in China, others to be¬ 
come mining kings in the mountains of Peru, or 
heads of great factories in Siberia, thousands of 
miles from home and friends. The whole planet 
was their home. Only a few of them—not always 
the shining lights—would stay at home, with a 
post on the State railways, to sit in an office and 
watch their salaries mount by increments of £12 
every fifth year. 

44 That’s a devil of a fellow, that brother of 
yours that’s here,” said Klaus Brock to Peer one 
day, as they were walking into town together with 
their books under their arms. 

4 ‘Now, look here, Klaus, once for all, be good 
enough to stop calling him my brother. And an¬ 
other thing—you’re never to say a word to any 
one about my father having been anything but a 
farmer. My name’s Holm, and I’m called so after 
my father’s farm. Just remember that, will you!” 

44 Oh, all right. Don’t excite yourself.” 

44 Do you suppose I’d give that coxcomb the tri¬ 
umph of thinking I want to make up to him!” 

44 No, no, of course not.” Klaus shrugged his 
shoulders and walked on, whistling. 




98 


The Great Hunger 


“Or that I want to make trouble for that fine 
family of his ? No, I may find a way to take it ont 
of him some day, but it won’t be that way.” 

“Well, hut, damn it, man! you can surely stand 
hearing what people say about him. ’ 9 And Klausi 
went on to tell his story. Ferdinand Holm, it 
seemed, was the despair of his family. He had 
thrown up his studies at the Military Academy, 
because he thought soldiers and soldiering ridic¬ 
ulous. Then he had made a short experiment with 
theology, but found that worse still; and finally, 
having discovered that engineering was at any 
rate an honest trade, he had come to anchor at 
the Technical College. “What do you say to 
that?” asked Klaus. 

“I don’t see anything so remarkable about it.” 

“Wait a bit, the cream of the story’s to come. 
A few weeks ago he thrashed a policeman in the 
street—said he’d insulted a child, or something. 
There was a fearful scandal—arrest, the police- 
court, fine, and so forth. And last winter what 
must he do but get engaged, formally and publicly 
engaged, to one of his mother ’s maids. And when 
his mother sent the girl off behind his back, he 
raised the standard of revolt and left home alto¬ 
gether. And now he does nothing but breathe fire 
and slaughter against the upper classes and all 
their works. What do you say to that ? ’ ’ 

‘ 1 My good man, what the deuce has all this got 
to do with me?” 

“Well, I think it’s confoundedly plucky of him, 




The Great Hunger 


99 


anyhow/’ said Klaus. “And for my part I shall 
get to know him if I can. He’s read an awful lot, 
they say, and has a damned clever head on his 
shoulders/’ 

On his very first day at the College, Peer had 
learned who Ferdinand Holm was, and had studied 
him with interest. He was a tall, straight-built 
fellow with reddish-blond hair and freckled face, 
and wore a dark tortoiseshell pincenez. He did 
not wear the usual College cap, but a stiff grey felt 
hat, and he looked about four or five and twenty. 

“Wait!” thought Peer to himself—“wait, my 
fine fellow! Yes, you were there, no doubt, when 
they turned me out of the churchyard that day. 
But all that won’t help you here. You may have 
got the start of me at first, and learned this, that, 
and the other, but—you just wait.” 

But one morning, out in the quadrangle, he no¬ 
ticed that Ferdinand Holm in his turn was look¬ 
ing at him, in fact was putting his glasses straight 
to get a better view of him—and Peer turned 
round at once and walked away. 

Ferdinand, however, had been put into a higher 
class almost at once, on the strength of his matric¬ 
ulation. Also he was going in for a different 
branch of the work—roads and railway construc¬ 
tion—so that it was only in the quadrangle and 
the passages that the two ever met. 

But one afternoon, soon after Christmas, Peer 
was standing at work in the big designing-room,, 




100 


The Great Hunger 


when he heard steps behind him, and, turning 
round, saw Klaus Brock and—Ferdinand Holm. 

“I wanted to make your acquaintance, ’ ’ said 
Holm, and when Klaus had introduced them, he 
held out a large white hand with a red seal-ring 
on the first finger. “We’re namesakes, I under¬ 
stand, and Brock here tells me you take your name 
from a country place called Holm. ’ ’ 

“ Yes. My father was a plain country farmer, ’ ’ 
said Peer, and at once felt annoyed with himself 
for the ring of humility the words seemed to have. 

“Well, the best is good enough/’ said the other 
with a smile. “I say, though, has the first-term 
class gone as far as this in projection drawing? 
Excuse my asking. You see, we had a good deal 
of this sort of thing at the Military Academy, so 
that I know a little about it. ’ ’ 

Thought Peer: “Oh, you’d like to give me a lit¬ 
tle good advice, would you, if you dared ?’ 9 Aloud 
he said: “No, the drawing was on the blackboard 
—the senior class left it there—and I thought I’d 
like to see what I could make out of it. ’ ’ 

The other sent him a sidelong glance. Then he 
nodded, said, “Good-bye—hope we shall meet 
again,” and walked off, his boots creaking slightly 
as he went. His easy manners, his gait, the tone 
of his voice, all seemed to irritate and humiliate 
Peer. Nevermind—just let him wait! 

Days passed, and weeks. Peer soon found an¬ 
other object to work for than getting the better of 
Ferdinand Holm. Louise’s dresses hung still un- 




The Great Hunger 


101 


touched in his room, her shoes stood under the 
bed; it still seemed to him that some day she must 
open the door and walk in. And when he lay there 
alone at night, the riddle was always with him: 
Where is she now?—why should she have died?— 
would he never meet her again? He saw her al¬ 
ways as she had stood that day playing to the sick 
folks in the hospital ward. But now she was 
dressed in white. And it seemed quite natural 
now that she had wings. He heard her music too 
—it cradled and rocked him. And all this came to 
be a little world apart, where he could take refuge 
for Sunday peace and devotion. It had nothing 
to do with faith or religion, but it was there. And 
sometimes in the midst of his work in the daytime 
he would divine, as in a quite separate conscious¬ 
ness, the tones of a fiddle-bow drawn across the 
strings, like reddish waves coming to him from far 
off, filling him with harmony, till he smiled with¬ 
out knowing it. 

Often, though, a sort of hunger would come upon 
him to let his being unfold in a great wide wave 
of organ music in the church. But to church he 
never went any more. He would stride by a 
church door with a kind of defiance. It might in¬ 
deed be an Almighty Will that had taken Louise 
from him, but if so he did not mean to give thanks 
to such a Will or bow down before it. It was as 
though he had in view a coming reckoning—his 
reckoning with something far out in eternity—and 




102 


The Great Hunger 


lie must see to it that when that time came he could 
feel free—free. 

On Sunday mornings, when the church bells be¬ 
gan to ring, he would turn hastily to his books, as 
if to find peace in them. Knowledge—knowledge 
—could it stay his hunger for the music of the 
hymn? When he had first started work at the 
shops, he had often and often stood wide-eyed be¬ 
fore some miracle—now he was gathering the 
power to work miracles himself. And so he read 
and read, and drank in all that he could draw from 
teacher or book, and thought and thought things 
out for himself. Fixed lessons and set tasks were 
all well enough, but Peer was for ever looking 
farther; for him there were questions and more 
questions, riddles and new riddles—always new, 
always farther and farther on, towards the un¬ 
known. He had made as yet but one step for¬ 
ward in physics, mathematics, chemistry; he di¬ 
vined that there were worlds still before him, and 
he must hasten on, on, on. Would the day ever 
come when he should reach the end? What is 
knowledge? What use do men make of all that 
they have learned? Look at the teachers, who 
knew so much—were they greater, richer, brighter 
beings than the rest? Could much study bring a 
man so far that some night he could lift up a finger 
and make the stars themselves break into song? 
Best drive ahead, at any rate. But, again, could 
knowledge lead on to that ecstasy of the Sunday 
psalm, that makes all riddles clear, that bears a 




The Great Hunger 


108 


man upwards in nameless happiness, in which his 
soul expands till it can enfold the infinite spaces? 
Well, at any rate the best thing was to drive ahead, 
drive ahead both early and late. 

One day that spring, when the trees in the city 
avenues were beginning to bud, Klaus Brock and 
Ferdinand Holm were sitting in a cafe in North 
Street. 6 ‘ There goes your friend,’’ said Ferdi¬ 
nand ; and looking from the window they saw Peer 
Holm passing the post-office on the other side of 
the road. His clothes were shabby, his shoes had 
not been cleaned, he walked slowly, his fair head 
with its College cap bent forward, but seemed 
nevertheless to notice all that was going on in the 
street. 

‘‘ Wonder what he’s going pondering over now,” 
said Klaus. 

‘‘Look there—I suppose that’s a type of car¬ 
riage he’s never seen before. WTay, he has got the 
driver to stop-” 

“I wouldn’t mind betting he’ll crawl in between 
the wheels to find out whatever he’s after,” 
laughed Klaus, drawing back from the window so 
as not to be seen. 

“He looks pale and fagged out,” said Ferdi¬ 
nand, shifting his glasses. “I suppose his peo¬ 
ple aren’t very well off?” 

Klaus opened his eyes and looked at the other. 
“He’s not overburdened with cash, I fancy.” 

They drank off their beer, and sat smoking and 
talking of other things, until Ferdinand remarked 





104 


The Great Hunger 


casually: “By the way—about your friend—are 
his parents still alive f ’ ’ 

Klaus was by no means anxious to go into Peer’s 
family affairs, and answered briefly—No, be 
thought not. 

“I’m afraid I’m boring you with questions, but 
the fact is the fellow interests me rather. There 
is something in his face, something—arresting. 
Even the way he walks—where is it I’ve seen some 
one walk like that before? And he works like a 
steam-engine, I hear?” 

“Works!” repeated Klaus. “He’ll ruin his 
health before long, the way he goes on grinding. 
I believe he’s got an idea that by much learning 
he can learn at last to Ha-ha-ha! ’ ’ 

“Tosdo what?” 

“Why—to understand God!” 

Ferdinand was staring out of the window. 
“Funny enough,” he said. 

“I ran across him last Sunday, up among the 
hills. He was out studying geology, if you please. 
And if there’s a lecture anywhere about anything 
—whether it’s astronomy or a French poet—you 
can safely swear he’ll be sitting there, taking 
notes. You can’t compete with a fellow like that! 
He’ll run across a new name somewhere—Aris¬ 
totle, for instance. It’s something new, and off he 
must go to the library to look it up. And then he ’ll 
lie awake for nights after, stuffing his head with 
translations from the Greek. How the deuce can 
any one keep up with a man who goes at things 





The Great Hunger 


105 


that way? There’s one thing, though, that he 
knows nothing about.’’ 

“And that is?” 

“Well, wine and women, we’ll say—and fun in 
general. One thing he isn’t, by Jove!—and that’s 
young.” 

“Perhaps he’s not been able to afford that sort 
of thing,” said Ferdinand, with something like a 
sigh. 

The two sat on for some time, and every now 
and then, when Klaus was off his guard, Ferdi¬ 
nand would slip in another little question about 
Peer. And by the time they had finished their sec¬ 
ond glass, Klaus had admitted that people said 
Peer’s mother had been a—well—no better than 
she should be. 

“And what about his father?” Ferdinand let 
fall casually. 

Klaus flushed uncomfortably at this. “Nobody 
—no—nobody knows much about him,” he stam¬ 
mered. “I’d tell you if I knew, hanged if I 
wouldn’t. No one has an idea who it was. He— 
he’s very likely in America.” 

“You’re always mighty mysterious when you 
get on the subject of his family, I’ve noticed,” said 
Ferdinand with a laugh. But Klaus thought his 
companion looked a little pale. 

A few days later Peer was sitting alone in his 
room above the stables, when he heard a step on 
the stairs, the door opened, and Ferdinand Holm 
walked in. 




106 


The Great Hunger 


Peer rose involuntarily and grasped at the hack 
of his chair as if to steady himself. If this young 
coxcomb had come—from the schoolmaster, for in¬ 
stance—or to take away his name—why, he’d just 
throw him downstairs, that was all. 

“I thought I’d like to look you up, and see where 
you lived, ’ ’ began the visitor, laying down his hat 
and taking a seat. “I’ve taken you unawares, I 
see. Sorry to disturb you. But the fact is there’s 
something I wanted to speak to you about.” 

“Oh, is there?” and Peer sat down as far as 
conveniently possible from the other. 

“I’ve noticed, even in the few times we’ve hap¬ 
pened to meet, that you don’t like me. Well, you 
know, that’s a thing I’m not going to put up 
with.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Peer, hardly 
knowing whether to laugh or not. 

“I want to be friends with you, that’s all. You 
probably know a good deal more about me than I 
do about you, hut that need not matter. Hullo— 
do you always drum with your fingers on the table 
like that? Ha-ha-ha! Why, that was a habit of 
my father’s, too.” 

Peer stared at the other in silence. But his fin¬ 
gers stopped drumming. 

‘ ‘ I rather envy you, you know, living as you do. 
When you come to be a millionaire, you’ll have an 
effective background for your millions. And then, 
you must know a great deal more about life than, 
we do; and the knowledge that comes out of books 




The Great Hunger 


107 


must have quite another spiritual value for you 
than for the rest of us, who’ve been stuffed me¬ 
chanically with ‘lessons’ and ‘education’ and so 
forth since we were kids. And now you’re going 
in for engineering!” 

“Yes,” said Peer. His face added pretty 
clearly, “And what concern is it of yours!” 

“Well, it does seem to me that the modern tech¬ 
nician is a priest in his way—or no, perhaps I 
should rather call him a descendant of old Prome¬ 
theus. Quite a respectable ancestry, too, don’t you 
think! But has it ever struck you that with every 
victory over nature won by the human spirit, a 
fragment of their omnipotence is wrested from the 
hands of the gods! I always feel as if we were 
using fire and steel, mechanical energy and hu¬ 
man thought, as weapons of revolt against the 
Heavenly tyranny. The day will come when we 
shall no longer need to pray. The hour will strike 
when the Heavenly potentates will be forced to 
capitulate, and in their turn bend the knee to us. 
What do you think yourself! Jehovah doesn’t 
like engineers—that’s my opinion.” 

“Sounds very well,” said Peer briefly. But he 
had to admit to himself that the other had put into 
words something that had been struggling for ex¬ 
pression in his own mind. 

‘ ‘ Of course for the present we two must be con¬ 
tent with smaller things,” Ferdinand went on. 
“And I don’t mind admitting that laying out a hit 
of road, or a bit of railway, or bridging a ditch 




108 


The Great Hunger 


or so, isn’t work that appeals to me tremendously. 
But if a man can get out into the wide world, 
there are things enough to be done that give him 
plenty of chance to develop what’s in him—if 
there happens to he anything. I used to envy the 
great soldiers, who went about to the ends of the 
earth, conquering wild tribes and founding em¬ 
pires, organising and civilising where they went. 
But in our day an engineer can find big jobs too, 
once he gets out in the world—draining thousands 
of square miles of swamp, or regulating the Nile, 
or linking two oceans together. That’s the sort 
of thing I’m going to take a hand in some day. 
As soon as I’ve finished here, I’m off. And we’ll 
leave it to the engineers to come, say in a couple 
of hundred years or so, to start in arranging tour¬ 
ist routes between the stars. Do you mind my 
smoking!” 

“No, please do,” said Peer. “But I’m sorry I 
haven’t-” 

“I have—thanks all the same.” Ferdinand 
took out his cigar-case, and when Peer had de¬ 
clined the offered cigar, lit one himself. 

“Look here,” he said, “won’t you come out and 
have dinner with me somewhere!” 

Peer started at his visitor. What did all this 
mean! 

“I’m a regular Spartan, as a rule, but they’ve 
just finished dividing up my father’s estate, so 
I’m in funds for the moment, and why shouldn’t 
we have a little dinner to celebrate! If you want 




The Great Hunger 109 

to change, I can wait ontside—but come just as 
you are, of course, if you prefer.’’ ^ 

Peer was more and more perplexed. Was there 
something behind all this ? Or was the fellow sim¬ 
ply an astonishingly good sort? Giving it up at 
last, he changed his collar and put on his best suit 
and went. 

For the first time in his life he found himself in 
a first-class restaurant, with small tables covered 
with snow-white tablecloths, flowers in vases, nap¬ 
kins folded sugar-loaf shape, cut-glass bowls, and 
coloured wine-glasses. Ferdinand seemed thor¬ 
oughly at home, and treated his companion with a 
friendly politeness. And during the meal he man¬ 
aged to make the talk turn most of the time on 
Peer’s childhood and early days. 

When they had come to the coffee and cigars, 
Ferdinand leaned across the table towards him, 
and said: “Look here, don’t you think we two 
ought to say thee and thou 1 to each other?” 

“Oh, yes!” said Peer, really touched now. 

“We’re both Holms, you know.” 

“Yes. So we are.” 

“And, after all, who knows that there mayn’t 
be some sort of connection? Come, now, don’t 
look like that! I only want you to look on me as 
your good friend, and to come to me if ever there’s 
anything I can do. We needn’t live in each other’s 
pockets, of course, when other people are by—but 

tft Tutoyer/' the mode of address of intimate friendship or re¬ 
lationship. 





110 


The Great Hunger 


we must take in Klaus Brock along with us, don’t 
you think?” 

Peer felt a strong impulse to run away. Did 
the other know everything? If so, why didn’t he 
speak straight out? 

As the two walked home in the clear light of 
the spring evening, Ferdinand took his compan¬ 
ion’s arm, and said: “I don’t know if you’ve 
heard that I’m not on good terms with my people 
at home. But the very first time I saw you, I had 
a sort of feeling that we two belonged together. 
Somehow you seemed to remind me so of—well, 
to tell the truth, of my father. And he, let me tell 
you, was a gallant gentleman-” 

Peer did not answer, and the matter went no 
farther then. 

But the next few days were an exciting time 
for Peer. He could not quite make out how much 
Ferdinand knew, and nothing on earth would have 
induced him to say anything more himself. And 
the other asked no questions, but was just a first- 
rate comrade, behaving as if they had been friends 
for years. He did not even ask Peer any more 
about his childhood, and never again referred to 
his own family. Peer was always reminding him¬ 
self to be on his guard, but could not help feel¬ 
ing glad all the same whenever they were to meet. 

He was invited one evening, with Klaus, to a 
wine-party at Ferdinand’s lodging, and found 
himself in a handsomely furnished room, with pic¬ 
tures on the walls, and photographs of his host’s 




The Great Hunger 


111 


parents. There was one of his father as a young 
man, in uniform; another of his grandfather, who 
had been a Judge of the Supreme Court. “It’s 
very good of you to be so interested in my peo¬ 
ple,’ ’ said Ferdinand with a smile. Klaus Brock 
looked from one to the other, wondering to him¬ 
self how things really stood between the two. 

The summer vacation came round, and the stu¬ 
dents prepared to break up and go their various 
ways. Klaus was to go home. And one day Fer¬ 
dinand came to Peer and said: “Look here, old 
man. I want you to do me a great favour. I’d 
arranged to go to the seaside this summer, but 
I’ve a chance of going up to the hills, too. Well, 
I can’t be in two places at once—couldn’t you take 
on one of them for me? Of course I’d pay all ex¬ 
penses.” “No, thank you!” said Peer, with a 
laugh. But when Klaus Brock came just before 
leaving and said: “See here, Peer. Don’t you 
think you and I might club together and put a 
marble slab over—Louise’s grave?”, Peer was 
touched, and clapped him on the shoulder. “What 
a good old fellow you are, Klaus,” he said. 

Later in the summer Peer set out alone on a 
tramp through the country, and whenever he saw 
a chance, he would go up to one of the farms and 
say: “Would you like to have a good map of the 
farm? It’ll cost ten crowns and my lodging while 
I’m at it.” It made a very pleasant holiday for 
him, and he came home with a little money in his 
pocket to boot. 





112 


The Great Hunger 


His second year at the school was much like the 
first. He plodded along at his work. And now 
and then his two friends would come and drag him 
off for an evening’s jollification. But after he had 
been racketing about with the others, singing and 
shouting through the sleeping town—and at last 
was alone and in his bed in the darkness, another 
and a very different life began for him, face to 
face with his innermost self. Where are you head¬ 
ing for, Peer? WLat are you aiming at in all your 
labours? And he would try to answer devoutly, 
as at evening prayers: WLere ? Why, of course, 
I am going to be a great engineer. And then? I 
will be one of the sons of Prometheus, that head 
the revolt against the tyranny of Heaven. And 
then? I will help to raise the great ladder on 
which men can climb aloft—higher and higher, up 
towards the light, and the spirit, and mastery over 
nature. And then? Live happily, marry and 
have children, and a rich and beautiful home. 
And then? Oh, well, one fine day, of course, one 
must grow old and die. And then? And then? 
Aye, what then? 

At these times he found a shadowy comfort in 
taking refuge in the world where Louise stood— 
playing, as he always saw her—and cradling him¬ 
self on the smooth red billows of her music. But 
why was it that here most of all he felt that hun¬ 
ger for—for something more? 

Ferdinand finished his College course, and went 
out, as he had said, into the great world, and 




The Great Hunger 


113 


Klaus went with him. And so throughout his 
third year Peer was mostly to be seen alone, al¬ 
ways with books under his arm, and head bent 
forward. 

Just as he was getting ready to go up for his 
final examination, a letter from Ferdinand ar¬ 
rived, written from Egypt. “Come over here, 
young fellow,” he wrote. “We have got good bil¬ 
lets at last with a big British firm—Brown Bros., 
of London—a firm that’s building railways in 
Canada, bridges in India, harbour works in Ar¬ 
gentina, and canals and barrages here in Egypt. 
We can get you a nice little post as draughtsman 
to begin with, and I enclose funds for the passage 
out. So come along.” 

But Peer did not go at once. He stayed on an¬ 
other year at the College, as assistant to the lec¬ 
turer on mechanics, while himself going through 
the road and railway construction course, as his 
half-brother had done. Some secret instinct urged 
him not to be left behind even in this. 

As the year went on the letters from his two 
comrades became more and more pressing and 
tempting. “Out here,” wrote Klaus, “the engi¬ 
neer is a missionary, proclaimer, not Jehovah, but 
the power and culture of Europe. You’re bound 
to take a hand in that, my boy. There’s work 
worthy of a great general waiting for you here.” 

At last, one autumn day, when the woods stood 
yellow all around the town, Peer drove away from 
his home with a big new travelling-trunk strapped 





114 


The Grreat Hunger 


to the driver’s seat. He had been np to the 
churchyard before starting, with a little bunch of 
flowers for Louise’s grave. Who could say if he 
would ever see it again? 

At the station he stood for a moment looking 
back over the old city with its cathedral, and the 
ancient fortress, where the sentry was pacing 
back and forth against the skyline. Was this the 
end of his youth? Louise—the room above the 
stables—the hospital, the lazarette, the College. 
. . . And there lay the fjord, and far out some¬ 
where on the coast there stood no doubt a little 
grey fisher-hut, where a pock-marked goodwife 
and her bow-legged goodman had perhaps even 
now received the parcel of coffee and tobacco sent 
them as a parting gift. 

And so Peer journeyed to the capital, and from 
there out into the wide world. 




BOOK II 








ft 

























Chapter I 


Some years had passed—a good many years—and 
once more summer had come, and June. A pas¬ 
senger steamer, bound from Antwerp to Chris¬ 
tiania, was ploughing her way one evening over a 
sea so motionlessly calm that it seemed a single 
vast mirror filled with a sky of grey and pink- 
tinged clouds. There were plenty of passengers 
on hoard, and no one felt inclined for bed; it was so 
warm, so beautiful on deck. Some artists, on their 
way home from Paris or Munich, cast about for 
amusements to pass the time; some ordered wine, 
others had unearthed a concertina, and very soon, 
no one knew how, a dance was in full swing. “No, 
my dear,” said one or two cautious mothers to 
their girls, “certainly not.” But before long the 
mothers were dancing themselves. Then there 
was a doctor in spectacles, who stood up on a bar¬ 
rel and made a speech; and presently two of the 
artists caught hold of the grey-bearded captain 
and chaired him round the deck. The night was 
so clear, the skies so ruddily beautiful, the air so 
soft, and out here on the open sea all hearts were 
light and happy. 

“Who’s that wooden-faced beggar over there 
that’s too high and mighty for a little fun?” asked 




118 


The Great Hunger 


Storaker the painter, of his friend the sculptor 
Praas. 

‘ 6 That fellow? Oh, he’s the one that was so 
infernally instructive at dinner, when we were 
talking about Egyptian vases.” 

“So it is, by Jove! Schoolmaster abroad, I 
should think. When we got on to Athens and 
Greek sculpture he condescended to set us right 
about that, too.” 

“I heard him this morning holding forth to the 
doctor on Assyriology. No wonder he doesn’t 
dance!” 

The passenger they were speaking of was a man 
of middle height, between thirty and forty appar¬ 
ently, who lay stretched in a deck-chair a little 
way off. He was dressed in grey throughout, 
from his travelling-cap to the spats above his 
brown shoes. His face was sallow, and the short 
brown beard was flecked with grey. But his eyes 
had gay little gleams in them as they followed the 
dancers. It was Peer Holm. 

As he sat there watching, it annoyed him to feel 
that he could not let himself go like the others. 
But it was so long since he had mixed with his 
own countrymen, that he felt insecure of his foot¬ 
ing and almost like a foreigner among them. Be¬ 
sides, in a few hours now they should sight the 
skerries on the Norwegian coast; and the thought 
awoke in him a strange excitement—it was a mo¬ 
ment he had dreamed of many and many a time 
out there in the wide world. 




The Great Hunger 


119 


After a while stillness fell on the decks around 
him, and he too went below, but lay down in his 
cabin without undressing. He thought of the time 
when he had passed that way on the outward 
voyage, poor and unknown, and had watched the 
last island of his native land sink below the sea- 
rim. Much had happened since then—and now 
that he had at last come home, what life awaited 
him there? 

A little after two in the morning he came on 
deck again, hut stood still in astonishment at find¬ 
ing that the vessel was now boring her way 
through a thick woolly fog. The devil! thought he, 
beginning to tramp up and down the deck impa¬ 
tiently. It seemed that his great moment was to 
be lost—spoiled for him! But suddenly he stopped 
by the railing, and stood gazing out into the east. 

What was that? Far out in the depths of the 
woolly fog a glowing spot appeared; the grey 
mass around grew alive, began to move, to red¬ 
den, to thin out as if it were streaming up in 
flames. Ah! now he knew! It was the globe of 
the sun, rising out of the sea. On board, every 
point where the night’s moisture had lodged be¬ 
gan to shine in gold. Eav h moment it grew clearer 
and lighter, and the eye r cached farther. And be¬ 
fore he could take in v at was happening, the 
grey darkness had rolled itself up into mounds, 
into mountains, that grew buoyant and floated 
aloft and melted away. And there, all revealed, 




120 


The Great Hunger 


lay the fresh bright morning, with a clear sun- 
filled sky over the blue sea. 

It was time now to get out his field-glasses. 
For a long time he stood motionless, gazing in¬ 
tently through them. 

There! Was it his fancy? No, there far ahead 
he can see clearly now a darker strip between sky 
and sea. It’s the first skerry. It is Norway, at 
last! 

Peer felt a sudden catch in his breath; he could 
hardly stand still, but he stopped again and again 
in his walk to look once more at the far-off strip 
of grey. And now there were seabirds too, with 
long necks and swiftly-beating wings. Welcome 
home! 

And now the steamer is ploughing in among the 
skerries, and a world of rocks and islets unfolds 
on every side. There is the first red fisher-hut. 
And then the entrance to Christiansand, between 
wooded hills and islands, where white cottages 
shine out, each with its patch of green grassland 
and its flagstaff before it. 

Peer watched it all, drinking it in like nourish¬ 
ment. How good it all tasted—he felt it would 
be long before he had drunk his fill. 

Then came the voyage up along the coast, all 
through a day of brilliant sunshine and a luminous 
night. He saw the blue sounds with swarms of 
white gulls hovering above them, the little coast- 
towns with their long white-painted wooden 
houses, and flowers in the windows. He had never 




The Great Hunger 


121 


passed this way before, and yet something in him 
seemed to nod and say: “I know myself again 
here.” All the way np the Christiania Fjord 
there was the scent of leaves and meadows; big 
farms stood by the shore shining in the sun. This 
was what a great farm looked like. He nodded 
again. So warm and fruitful it all seemed, and 
dear to him as home—though he knew that, after 
all, he would be little better than a tourist in his 
own country. There was no one waiting for him, 
no one to take him in. Still, some day things 
might be very different. 

As the ship drew alongside the quay at Chris¬ 
tiania, the other passengers lined the rail, friends 
and relations came aboard, there were tears and 
laughter and kisses and embraces. Peer lifted his 
hat as he passed down the gangway, but no one 
had time to notice him just now. And when he 
had found a hotel porter to look after his luggage, 
he walked up alone through the town, as if he were 
a stranger. 

The light nights made it difficult to sleep—he 
had actually forgotten that it was light all pight 
long. And this was a capital city—yet so touch¬ 
ingly small, it seemed but a few steps wherever 
he went. These were his countrymen, but he knew 
no one among them; there was no one to greet him. 
Still, he thought again, some day all this might 
be very different. 

At last, one day as he stood looking at the win¬ 
dow of a bookseller’s shop, he heard a voice be- 




122 


The Great Hunger 


hind him: “Why, bless me! surely it’s Peer 
Holm! ,, It was one of his fellow-students at the 
Technical College, Reidar Langberg, pale and thin 
now as ever. He had been a shining light at the 
College, but now—now he looked shabby, worn 
and aged. 

“I hardly knew you again,” said Peer, grasp¬ 
ing the other’s hand. 

“And you’re a millionaire, so they say—and 
famous, out in the big world?” 

“Not quite so bad as that, old fellow. But what 
about you ? ’ ’ 

“I? Oh, don’t talk about me.” And as they 
walked down the street together, Langberg poured 
out his tale, of how times were desperately bad, 
and conditions at home here simply strangled a 
man. He had started ten or twelve years ago as 
a draughtsman in the offices of the State Rail¬ 
ways, and was still there, with a growing family 
—and “such pay—such pay, my dear fellow!” 
He threw up his eyes and clasped his hands de¬ 
spairingly. 

“Look here,” said Peer, interrupting him . 
“Where is the best place in Christiania to go and 
have a good time in the evening?” 

“Well, St. Hans Hill, for instance. There’s 
music there.” 

“Right—will you come and dine with me there, 
to-night—shall we say eight o’clock?” 

*‘ Thanks. I should think I would! ’ ’ 

Peer arrived in good time, and engaged a table 




The Great Hunger 


123 


on a verandah. Langberg made his appearance 
shortly after, dressed in his well-saved Sunday 
best—faded frock-coat, light trousers bagged at 
the knees, and a straw hat yellow with age. 

“It’s a pleasure to have someone to talk to 
again, J ’ said Peer. “For the last year or so I’ve 
been knocking about pretty much by myself.” 

“Is it as long as that since you left Egypt?” 

“Yes; longer. I’ve been in Abyssinia since 
then.” 

“Oh, of course, I remember now. It was in the 
papers. Building a railway for King Menelik, 
weren’t you?” 

“Oh, yes. But the last eighteen months or so 
I’ve been idling—running about to theatres and 
museums and so forth. I began at Athens and 
finished up with London. I remember one day 
sitting on the steps of the Parthenon declaiming 
the Antigone—and a moment with some meaning 
in it seemed to have come at last.” 

“But, dash it, man, you’re surely not compar¬ 
ing such trifles with a thing like the great Nile 
Barrage? You were on that for some years, 
weren’t you? Do let’s hear something about that. 
Up by the first cataract, wasn’t it? And hadn’t 
you enormous quarries there on the spot? You 
see, even sitting at home here, I haven’t quite lost 
touch. But you—good Lord! what things you 
must have seen! Fancy living at—what was the 
name of the town again?” 

“Assuan,” answered Peer indifferently, look- 




124 


The Great Hunger 


i^ng out over the gardens, where more and more 
visitors kept arriving. 

‘ 4 They say the barrage is as great a miracle as 
the Pyramids. How many sluice-gates are there 
again—a hundred and . . . V 9 

“Two hundred and sixteen,” said Peer. 
‘‘Look!” he broke off. “Do you know those girls 
over there?” He nodded towards a party of girls 
in light dresses who were sitting down at a table 
close by. 

Langberg shook his head. He was greedy for 
news from the great world without, which he had 
never had the luck to see. 

“I’ve often wondered,” he went on, “how you 
managed to come to the front so in that sort of 
work—railways and barrages, and so forth—when 
your original line was mechanical engineering. 
Of course you did do an extra year on the roads 
and railway side; but ...” 

Oh, this shining light of the schools! 

“What do you say to a glass of champagne?” 
said Peer. “How do you like it? Sweet or dry?” 

“Why, is there any difference? I really didn’t 
know. But when one’s a millionaire, of 
course ...” 

“I’m not a millionaire,” said Peer with a smile, 
and beckoned to a waiter. 

“Oh! I heard you were. Didn’t you invent a 
new motor-pump that drove all the other types 
out of the field? And besides—that Abyssinian 
railway. Oh well, well!” he sighed, “it’s a good 




The Great Hunger 


125 


thing somebody’s lucky. The rest of us shouldn’t 
complain. But how about the other two—Klaus 
Brock and Ferdinand Holm? What are they do¬ 
ing now?” 

“Klaus is looking after the Khedive’s estates 
,at Edfina. Agriculture by steam power; his own 
railway lines to bring in the produce, and so on. 
Yes, Klaus has ended up in a nice little place of 
his own. His district’s bigger than the kingdom 
of Denmark.” 

“Good heavens!” Langberg nearly fell off his 
chair. ‘ ‘ And Ferdinand Holm; what about him? ’ ’ 

“Oh, he’s got bigger things on hand. Went 
nosing about the Libyan desert, and found that 
considerable tracts of it have water-veins only a 
few yards beneath the surface. If so, of course, 
it’s only a question of proper plant to turn an 
enormous area into a paradise for corn-growing. ’ ’ 

“Good gracious! What a discovery!” gasped 
the other, almost breathless now. 

Peer looked out over the fjord, and went on: 
“Last year he managed at last to get the Khedive 
interested, and they’ve started a joint-stock com¬ 
pany now, with a capital of some millions. Ferdi¬ 
nand is chief engineer.” 

“And what’s his salary? As much as fifty 
thousand crowns?” 

“His pay is two hundred thousand francs a 
year,” said Peer, not without some fear that his 
companion might faint. “Yes, he’s an able fel¬ 
low, is Ferdinand.” 




126 


The Great Hunger 


It took Langberg some time to get his breath 
again. At last he asked, with a sidelong glance: 

“And you and Klaus Brock—I suppose you’ve 
put your millions in his company ?” 

Peer smiled as he sat looking out over the gar¬ 
den. Lifting his glass, “Your good health,” he 
said, for all answer. 

“Have you been in America, too?” went on 
the other. “No, I suppose not!” 

“America? Yes, a few years back, when I was 
with Brown Bros., they sent me over one time to 
buy plant. Nothing so surprising in that, is 
there?” 

“No, no, of course not. I was only thinking— 
you went about there, I daresay, and saw all the 
wonderful things—the miracles of science they’re 
always producing.” 

“My dear fellow, if you only knew how deadly 
sick I am of miracles of science! What I’m long¬ 
ing for is a country watermill that takes twenty- 
four hours to grind a sack of com.” 

“WTmt? What do you say?” Langberg 
bounced in his chair. “Ha-ha-ha! You’re the 
same old man, I can see. ’ ’ 

“I’m perfectly serious,” said Peer, lifting his 
glass towards the other. “Come. Here’s to our 
old days together! ’ ’ 

“Aye—thanks, a thousand thanks—to our old 
days together!—Ah, delicious! Well, then, I sup¬ 
pose you’ve fallen in love away down there in the 




The Great Hunger 127 

land of the barbarians? Haven’t you! Ha-ha- 
ha!” 

“Do you call Egypt a land of barbarians!” 

“Well, don’t the fellahs still yoke their wives 
to their ploughs?” 

“A fellah will sit all night long outside his hut 
and gaze up at the stars and give himself time to 
dream. And a merchant prince in Vienna will 
dictate business letters in his automobile as he’s 
driving to the theatre, and write telegrams as he 
sits in the stalls. One fine day he’ll be sitting in 
his private box with a telephone at one ear and 
listening to the opera with the other. That’s what 
the miracles of science are doing for us. Awe¬ 
inspiring, isn’t it?” 

“And you talk like that—a man that’s helped 
to harness the Nile, and has built railways through 
the desert?” 

Peer shrugged his shoulders, and offered the 
other a cigar from his case. A waiter appeared 
with coffee. 

“To help mankind to make quicker progress— 
is that nothing?” 

“Lord! What I’d like to know is, where man¬ 
kind are making for, that they’re in such a hurry. ” 

“That the Nile Barrage has doubled the pro¬ 
duction of com in Egypt—created the possibilities 
of life for millions of human beings—is that noth¬ 
ing?” 

“My good fellow, do you really think there 
aren’t enough fools on this earth already? H&ve 




128 


The Great Hunger 


we too little wailing and misery and discontent 
and class-hatred as it is? Why must we go about 
to double it?” 

“But hang it all, man—what about European 
culture? Surely you felt yourself a sort of mis¬ 
sionary of civilisation, where you have been.” 

“The spread of European civilisation in the 
East simply means that half a dozen big financiers 
in London or Paris take a fancy to a certain strip 
of Africa or Asia. They press a button, and out 
come all the ministers and generals and mission¬ 
aries and engineers with a bow: At your service, 
gentlemen! 

“Culture! One wheel begets ten new ones. 
Brr-rrr! And the ten again another hundred. 
Brr-rr-rrr—more speed, more competition—and 
all for what? For culture? No, my friend, for 
money. Missionary! I tell you, as long as West¬ 
ern Europe with all its wonders of modern science 
and its Christianity and its political reforms 
hasn’t turned out a better type of humanity than 
the mean ruck of men we have now—we’d do best 
to stay at home and hold our counfounded jaw. 
Here’s ourselves!” and Peer emptied his glass. 

This was a sad hearing for poor Langberg. 
For he had been used to comfort himself in his 
daily round with the thought that even he, in his 
modest sphere, was doing his share in the great 
work of civilising the world. 

At last he leaned back, watching the smoke 
from his cigar, and smiling a little. 





The Great Hunger 


129 


“I remember a young fellow at the College,” 
he said, “who used to talk a good deal about Pro¬ 
metheus, and the grand work of liberating human¬ 
ity, by stealing ne wand ever new fire from Olym¬ 
pus.” 

“That was me—yes,” said Peer with a laugh. 
“As a matter of fact, I was only quoting Ferdi¬ 
nand Holm.” 

“You don’t believe in all that now?” 

“It strikes me that fire and steel are rapidly 
turning men into beasts. Machinery is killing 
more and more of what we call the godlike in us.” 

“But, good heavens, man! Surely a man can 
be a Christian even if . . .” 

“Christian as much as you like. But don’t you 
think it might soon be time we found something 
better to worship than an ascetic on a cross ? Are 
we to keep on for ever singing Hallelujah be¬ 
cause we’ve saved our own skins and yet can hag¬ 
gle ourselves into heaven? Is that religion?” 

“No, no, perhaps not. But I don’t know . . 

“Neither do I. But it’s all the same; for any¬ 
how no such thing as religious feeling exists any 
longer. Machinery is killing our longings for 
eternity, too. Ask the good people in the great 
cities. They spend Christmas Eve playing tunes 
from The Dollar Princess on the gramophone.” 

Langberg sat for a while watching the other 
attentively. Peer sat smoking slowly; his face 
was flushed with the wine, but from time to time 




130 


The Great Hunger 


his eyes half-closed, and his thoughts seemed to 
be wandering in other fields than these. 

“And what do yon think of doing now yon are 
home again ?” asked his companion at last. 

Peer opened his eyes. “Doing? Oh, I don’t 
know. Look about me first of all. Then perhaps 
I may find a cottar’s croft somewhere and settle 
down and marry a dairymaid. Here’s luck! ’ ’ 

The gardens were full now of people in light 
summer dress, and in the luminous evening a con¬ 
stant ripple of laughter and gay voices came up 
to them. Peer looked curiously at the crowd, all 
strangers to him, and asked his companion the 
names of some of the people. Langberg pointed 
out one or two celebrities—a Cabinet Minister sit¬ 
ting near by, a famous explorer a little farther 
off. “But I don’t know them personally,” he 
added. “Can’t afford society on that scale, of 
course.” 

“How beautiful it is here!” said Peer, look¬ 
ing out once more at the yellow shimmer of light 
above the fjord. “And how good it is to be home 
again!” 




Chapter II 


He sat in the train on his way np-country, and 
from the carriage window watched farms and 
meadows and tree-lined roads slide past. Where 
was he going? He did not know himself. Why 
should not a man start off at haphazard, and get 
out when the mood takes him? At last he was able 
to travel through his own country without having 
to think of half-pennies. He could let the days 
pass over his head without care or trouble, and 
give himself good leisure to enjoy any beauty that 
came in his way. 

There is Mjosen, the broad lake with the rich 
farmlands and long wooded ridges on either side. 
He had never been here before, yet it seemed as 
if something in him nodded a recognition to it all. 
Once more he sat drinking in the rich, fruitful 
landscape—the wooded hills, the fields and mead¬ 
ows seemed to spread themselves out over empty 
places in his mind. 

But later in the day the landscape narrowed 
and they were in Gudbrandsdalen, where the sun¬ 
burned farms are set on green slopes between the 
river and the mountains. Peer's head was full of 
pictures from abroad, from the desert sands with 
their scorched palm-trees to the canals of Venice. 




132 


The Great Hunger 


But here—he nodded again. Here he was at home, 
though he had never seen the place before; just 
this it was which had been calling to him all 
through his long years of exile. 

At last on a sudden he gathered up his traps 
and got out, without the least idea even of the 
name of the station. A meal at the hotel, a knap¬ 
sack on his back, and hey!—there before him lies 
the road, up into the hills. 

Alone? What matter, when there are endless 
things that greet him from every side with “ Wel¬ 
come home!” The road is steep, the air grows 
lighter, the homesteads smaller. At last the huts 
look like little matchboxes—from the valley, no 
doubt, it must seem as if the people up here were 
living among the clouds. But many and many a 
youth must have followed this road in the even¬ 
ings, going up to court his Mari or his Kari at the 
sseter-hut, the same road and the same errand one 
generation after another. To Peer it seemed as if 
all those lads now bore him company—aye, as if 
he discovered in himself something of wanton 
youth that had managed to get free at last. 

Puh! His coat must come off and his cap go 
into the knapsack. Now, as the valley sinks and 
sinks farther beneath him, the view across it 
widens farther and farther out over the uplands 
beyond. Brown hills and blue, ridges livid or 
mossy-grey in the setting sun, rising and falling 
wave behind wave, and beyond all a great snow- 
field, like a sea of white breakers foaming against 





The Great Hunger 


133 


the sky. But surely he had seen all this before? 

Ah! now he knew; it was the Lofoten Sea over 
again—with its white foam-crested combers and 
long-drawn, heavy-breathing swell—a rolling 
ocean turned to rock. Peer halted a moment lean¬ 
ing on his stick, and his eyes half-closed. Could 
he not feel that same ocean-swell rising and sink¬ 
ing in his own being? Did not the same waves 
surge through the centuries, carrying the genera¬ 
tions away with them upon great wanderings? 
And in daily life the wave rolls us along in the 
old familiar rhythm, and not one in ten thousand 
lifts his head above it to ask: whither and why! 
Even now just such a little wave has hold of him, 
taking him—whither and why? Well, the coming 
days might show; meanwhile, there beyond was 
the sea of stone rolling its eternal cadence under 
the endless sky. 

He wiped his forehead and turned and went his 
way. 

But what is that far off in the north-east? three 
sisters in white shawls, lifting their heads to 
heaven—that must be Rondane. And see how the 
evening sun is kindling the white peaks to purple 
and gold. 

Puh!—only one more hill now, and here is the 
top at last. And there ahead lie the great up¬ 
lands, with marsh and mound and gleaming tarns. 
Ah, what a relief! What wonder that his step 
grows lighter and quicker? Before he knows it he 
is singing aloud in mere gaiety of heart. Ah, dear 




134 


The Great Hunger 


God, what if after all it were not too late to be 
young! 

A sseter. A little hut, standing on a patch of 
green, with split-stick fence and a long cow-honse 
of rough planks—it must be a sseter! And listen 
—isn’t that a girl singing? Peer slipped softly 
through the gate and stood listening against the 
wall of the byre. “Shap, shap, shap,” went the 
streams of milk against the pail. It must be a 
fairy sitting milking in there. Then came the 
voice: 

Oh, Sunday eve, oh, Sunday eve, 

Ever wast thou my dearest eve! 

“Shap, shap, shap!” went the milk once more 
in the pail—and suddenly Peer joined in: 

Oh bright, oh gentle Sunday eve— 

Wilt ever be my dearest eve! 

The milking stopped, a cowbell tinkled as the 
cow turned her inquiring face, and a girl’s light- 
brown head of hair was thrust out of the doorway 
—soon followed by the girl herself, slender, eight¬ 
een, red-cheeked, fresh and smiling. 

“Good evening,” said Peer, stretching out his 
hand. 

The girl looked at him for a moment, then cast 
a glance at her own clothes—as women will when 
they see a man who takes their fancy. 

“An’ who may you be?” she asked. 

“Can you cook me some cream-porridge?” 

“A’ must finish milking first, then.” 




The Great Hunger 


135 


Here was a job that Peer could help with. He 
took off his knapsack, washed his hands, and was 
soon seated on a stool in the close sweet air of 
the shed, milking busily. Then he fetched water, 
and chopped some wood for the fire, the girl gaz¬ 
ing at him all the time, no doubt wondering who 
this crazy person could be. When the porridge 
stood ready on the table, he insisted on her sitting 
down close to him and sharing the meal. They 
ate a little, and then laughed a little, and then 
chatted, and then ate and then laughed again. 
When he asked what he had to pay, the girl said: 
“Whatever you like”—and he gave her two 
crowns and then bent her head back and kissed 
her lips. “What’s the man up to?” he heard her 
gasp behind him as he passed out; when he had 
gone a good way and turned to look back, there 
she was in the doorway, shading her eyes and 
watching him. 

Whither away now? Well, he was pretty sure 
to reach some other inhabited place before night. 
This, he felt, was not his abiding-place. No, it 
was not here. 

It was nearly midnight when he stood by the 
shore of a broad mountain lake, beneath a snow- 
flecked hill-side. Here were a couple of sseters, 
and across the lake, on a wooded island, stood a 
small frame house that looked like some city peo¬ 
ple’s summer cottage. And see—over the lake, 
that still mirrored the evening red, a boat ap- 




136 


The Great Hunger 


peared moving towards the island, and two white¬ 
sleeved girls sat at the oars, singing as they rowed. 
A strange feeling came over him. Here—here he 
would stay. 

In the saeter-hut stood an enormously fat 
woman, with a rope round her middle, evidently 
ready to go to bed. Could she put him up for the 
night? Why, yes, she supposed so—and she rolled 
off into another room. And soon he was lying 
in a tiny chamber, in a bed with a mountainous 
mattress and a quilt. There was a fresh smell 
from the juniper twigs strewed about the newly- 
washed floor, and the cheeses, which stood in rows 
all round the shelf-lined walls. Ah! he had slept 
in many places and fashions—at sea in a Lofoten 
boat; on the swaying back of a camel; in tents 
out in the moonlit desert; and in palaces of the 
Arabian Nights, where dwarfs fanned him with 
palm-leaves to drive away the heat, and called him 
pasha. But here, at last, he had found a place 
where it was good to be. And he closed his eyes, 
and lay listening to the murmur of a little stream 
outside in the light summer night, till he fell 
asleep. 

Late in the forenoon of the next day he was 
awakened by the entry of the old woman with 
coffee. Then a plunge into the blue-green water 
of the mountain lake, a short swim, and back to 
find grilled trout and new-baked waffles and thick 
cream for lunch. 




The Great Hunger 


137 


Yes, said the old woman, if he could get along 
with the sort of victuals she could cook, he might 
stay here a few days and welcome. The bed was 
standing there empty, anyway. 




Chapter III 


So Peer stays on and goes fishing. He catches 
little; bnt time goes leisurely here, and the sum¬ 
mer lies soft and warm over the brown and blue 
hillsides. He has soon learned that a merchant 
named Uthoug, from Ringeby, is living in the 
house on the island, with his wife and daughter. 
And what of it? 

Often he would lie in his boat, smoking his pipe, 
and giving himself up to quiet dreams that came 
and passed. A young girl in a white boat, mov¬ 
ing over red waters in the evening—a secret meet¬ 
ing on an island—no one must know just yet. 
. . . Would it ever happen to him? Ah, no. 

The sun goes down, there come sounds of cow¬ 
bells nearing the sseters, the musical cries and calls 
of the sseter-girls, the lowing of the cattle. The 
mountains stand silent in the distance, their snow- 
clad tops grown golden; the stream slides rip¬ 
pling by, murmuring on through the luminous 
nights. 

Then at last came the day of all days. 

He had gone out for a long tramp at random 
over the hills, making his way by compass, and 
noting landmarks to guide him back. Here was 
a marsh covered with cloudberries—the taste 




The Great Hunger 


139 


brought back his own childhood. He wandered 
on up a pale-brown ridge flecked with red heather 
—and what was that ahead? Smoke? He made 
towards it. Yes, it was smoke. A ptarmigan 
fluttered out in front of him, with a brood of tiny 
youngsters at her heels—Lord, what a shave!— 
he stopped short to avoid treading on them. The 
smoke meant someone near—possibly a camp of 
Lapps. Let’s go and see. 

He topped the last mound, and there was the 
fire just below. Two girls jumped to their feet; 
there was a bright coffee-kettle on the fire, and 
on the moss-covered ground close by bread and 
butter and sandwiches laid out on a paper table¬ 
cloth. 

Peer stopped short in surprise. The girls gazed 
at him for a moment, and he at them, all three 
with a hesitating smile. 

At last Peer lifted his hat and asked the way to 
Eustad sseter. It took them some time to explain 
this, and then they asked him the time. He told 
them exactly to the minute, and then showed them 
his watch so that they might see for themselves. 
All this took more time. Meanwhile, they had 
inspected each other, and found no reason to part 
company just yet. One of the girls was tall, slen¬ 
der of figure, with a warm-coloured oval face and 
dark brown hair. Her eyebrows were thick and 
met above the nose, delightful to look at. She 
wore a blue serge dress, with the skirt kilted up a 
little, leaving her ankles visible. The other was a 




140 


The Great Hunger 


blonde, smaller of stature, and with a melancholy 
face, though she smiled constantly. “Oh,” she 
said suddenly, “have you a pocket-knife by any 
chance V 9 

“Oh yes!” Peer was just moving off, but 
gladly seized the opportunity to stay a while. 

“We’ve a tin of sardines here, and nothing to 
open it with,” said the dark one. 

“Let me try,” said Peer. As luck would have 
it, he managed to cut himself a little, and the two 
girls tumbled over each other to tie up the wound. 
It ended, of course, with their asking him to join 
their coffee-party. 

“My name is Merle Uthoug,” said the dark one, 
with a curtsy. 

“Oh, then, it’s your father who has the place 
on the island in the lake ?’ 9 

“My name’s only Mork—Thea Mork. My 
father is a lawyer, and we have a little cottage 
farther up the lake,” said the blonde. 

Peer was about to introduce himself, when the 
dark girl interrupted: “Oh, we know you al¬ 
ready,” she said. “We’ve seen you out rowing on 
the lake so often. And we had to find out who 
you were. We have a goo'd pair of glasses . . .” 

“Merle!” broke in her companion warningly. 

“. . . and then, yesterday, we sent one of the 
maids over reconnoitring, to make inquiries and 
bring us a full report. ’ ’ 

16 Merle! How can you say such things ? ’ ’ 

It was a cheery little feast. Ah! how young 




The Great Hunger 


141 


they were, these two girls, and how they laughed 
at a joke, and what quantities of bread and but¬ 
ter and coffee they all three disposed of! Merle 
now and again would give their companion a side¬ 
long glance, while Thea laughed at all the wild 
things her friend said, and scolded her, and looked 
anxiously at Peer. 

And now the sun was nearing the shoulder of a 
hill far in the west, and evening was falling. They 
packed up their things, and Peer was loaded up 
with a big bag of cloud-berries on his back, and a 
tin pail to carry in his hand. “Give him some 
more, ,, said Merle. “It’ll do him good to work 
for a change.” 

4 ‘ Merle, you really are too bad! ’ ’ 

1 ‘ Here you are, ’ ’ said the girl, and slid the han¬ 
dle of a basket into his other hand. 

Then they set out down the hill. Merle sang 
and yodelled as they went; then Peer sang, and 
then they all three sang together. And when they 
came to a heather-tussock or a puddle, they did 
not trouble to go round, but just jumped over it, 
and then gave another jump for the fun of the 
thing. 

They passed the sseter and went on down to the 
water’s edge, and Peer proposed to row them 
home. And so they rowed across. And the whole 
time they sat talking and laughing together as if 
they had known each other for years. 

The boat touched land just below the cottage, 
and a broad-shouldered man with a grey beard 





142 


The Great Hunger 


and a straw hat came down to meet them. “Oh, 
father, are you hack again ?” cried Merle, and, 
springing ashore, she flung her arms round his 
neck. The two exchanged some whispered words, 
and the father glanced at Peer. Then, taking off 
his hat, he came towards him and said politely, 
“It was very kind of you to help the girls down.” 

“This is Herr Holm, engineer and Egyptian,” 
said Merle, “and this is father.” 

“I hear we are neighbours,” said IJthoug. 
“We’re just going to have tea, so if you have 
nothing better to do, perhaps you will join us.” 

Outside the cottage stood a grey-haired lady 
with a pale face, wearing spectacles. She had a 
thick white woollen shawl over her shoulders, but 
even so she seemed to feel cold. “Welcome,” 
she said, and Peer thought there was a tremor 
in her voice. 

There were two small low rooms with an open 
fireplace in the one, and in it there stood a table 
ready laid. But from the moment Merle entered 
the house, she took command of everything, and 
whisked in and out. Soon there was the sound 
of fish cooking in the kitchen, and a moment later 
she came in with a plate full of lettuce, and said: 
“Mr. Egyptian—you can make us an Arabian 
salad, can’t you?” 

Peer was delighted. “I should think so,” he 
said. 

“You’ll find salt and pepper and vinegar and 
oil on the table there, and that’s all we possess in 




The Great Hunger 


143 


the way of condiments. But it must be a real 
Arabian salad all the same, if yon please ! 9 9 And 
out she went again, while Peer busied himself 
with the salad. 

“I hope you will excuse my daughter / 9 said 
Fru Uthoug, turning her pale face towards him 
and looking through her spectacles. “She is not 
really so wild as she seems .’ 9 

Uthoug himself walked up and down the room, 
chatting to Peer and asking a great many ques¬ 
tions about conditions in Egypt. He knew some¬ 
thing about the Mahdi, and General Gordon, and 
Khartoum, and the strained relations between the 
Khedive and the Sultan. He was evidently a dili¬ 
gent reader of the newspapers, and Peer gathered 
that he was a Radical, and a man of some weight 
in his party. And he looked as if there was plenty 
of fire smouldering under his reddish eyelids: “A 
bad man to fall out with,” thought Peer. 

They sat down to supper, and Peer noticed 
that Fru Uthoug grew less pale and anxious as 
her daughter laughed and joked and chattered. 
There even came a slight glow at last into the 
faded cheeks; the eyes behind the spectacles 
seemed to shine with a light borrowed from her 
daughter’s. But her husband seemed not to no¬ 
tice anything, and tried all the time to go on talk¬ 
ing about the Mahdi and the Khedive and the 
Sultan. 

So for the first time for many years Peer sat 
down to table in a Norwegian home—and how 




144 


The Great Hunger 


good it was ! Would lie ever have a home of his 
own, he wondered. 

After the meal, a mandolin was brought out, 
and they sat round the fire in the great fireplace 
and had some music. Until at last Merle rose 
and said: “Now, mother, it’s time you went to 
bed.” 

“Yes, dear,” came the answer submissively, 
and Fru Uthoug said good-night, and Merle led 
her off. 

Peer had risen to take leave, when Merle came 
in again. “Why,” she said, “you’re surely not 
going off before you’ve rowed T'hea home?” 

“Oh, Merle, please ...” put in the other. 

But when the two had taken their places in the 
boat and were just about to start up the lake, 
Merle came running down and said she might just 
as well come too. 

Half an hour later, having seen the young girl 
safely ashore at her father’s place, Merle and 
Peer were alone, rowing back through the still 
night over the waters of the lake, golden in the 
light and dark blue in the shadows. Merle leaned 
back in the stern, silent, trailing a small branch 
along the surface of the water behind. After 
a while Peer laid in his oars and let the boat 
drift. 

“How beautiful it is!” he said. 

The girl lifted her head and looked round. 
“Yes,” she answered, and Peer fancied her voice 
had taken a new tone. 




The Great Hunger 145 

It was past midnight. Heights and woods and 
sasters lay lifeless in the soft suffused reddish 
light. The lake-trout were not rising any more, 
but now and again the screech of a cock-ptarmi¬ 
gan could be heard among the withies. 

“What made you come just here for your holi¬ 
day, I wonder,’ 9 she asked suddenly. 

“I leave everything to chance, Froken IJthoug. 
It just happened so. It’s all so homelike here, 
wherever one goes. And it is so wonderful to be 
home in Norway again.” 

“But haven’t you been to see your people— 
your father and mother—since you came home?” 

“I-! Bo you suppose I have a father and 

mother?” 

“But near relations—surely you must have a 
brother or sister somewhere in the world?” 

“Ah, if one only had! Though, after all, one 
can get on without. ’ ’ 

She looked at him searchingly, as if trying to 
see whether he spoke in earnest. Then she said: 

“Bo you know that mother dreamed of you 
before you came?” 

“Of me?” Peer’s eyes opened wide. “What 
did she dream about me?” 

A sudden flush came to the girl’s face, and she 
shook her head. “It’s foolish of me to sit here 
and tell you all this. But you see that was why 
we wanted so much to find out about you when 
you came. And it gives me a sort of feeling of 
our having known each other a long time.” 






146 


The Great Hunger 


“You appear to have a very constant flow of 
high spirits, Froken TJthoug!” 

“I? Why do you think-! Oh, well, yes. 

One can come by most things, you know, if one 
has to have them.” 

“Even high spirits!” 

She turned her head and looked towards the 
shore. “Some day perhaps—if we should come 
to be friends—I’ll tell you more about it.” 

Peer bent to his oars and rowed on. The still¬ 
ness of the night drew them nearer and nearer 
together, and made them silent; only now and then 
they would look at each other and smile. 

“What mysterious creature is this I have come 
upon!” thought Peer. She might be about one- 
or two-and-twenty. She sat there with bowed 
head, and in this soft glow the oval face had a 
strange light of dreams upon it. But suddenly 
her glance came back and rested on him again, 
and then she smiled, and he saw that her mouth 
was large and her lips full and red. 

“I wish I had been all over the world, like you,” 
she said. 

“Have you never been abroad, Froken 
TJthoug!” he asked. 

“I spent a winter in Berlin, once, and a few 
months in South Germany. I played the violin 
a little, you see; and I hoped to take it up seri¬ 
ously abroad and make something of it—but——” 

“Well, why shouldn’t you!” 

She was silent for a little, then at last she said: 




The Great Hunger 


147 


“I suppose you are sure to know about it some 
day, so I may just as well tell you now. Mother 
has been out of her mind. ,, 

“My dear Froken-” 

“And when she’s at home my—high spirits are 
needed to help her to be more or less herself.” 

He felt an impulse to rise and go to the girl, 
and take her head between his hands. But she 
looked up, with a melancholy smile; their eyes met 
in a long look, and she forgot to withdraw her 
glance. 

“I must go ashore now,” she said at last. 

“Oh, so soon! Why, we have hardly begun our 
talk!” 

“I must go ashore now,” she repeated; and her 
voice, though still gentle, was not to be gainsaid. 

At last Peer was alone, rowing back to his sseter. 
As he rowed he watched the girl going slowly up 
towards the cottage. When she reached the door 
she turned for the first time and waved to him. 
Then she stood for a moment looking after him, 
and then opened the door and disappeared. He 
gazed at the door some time longer, as if expect¬ 
ing to see it open again, but no sign of life was 
to be seen. 

The sun’s rim was showing now above the dis¬ 
tant ranges in the east, and the white peaks in the 
north and west kindled in the morning glow. 
Peer laid in his oars again, and rested, with his 
elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. 




148 


The Great Hunger 


What could this thing be that had befallen him to¬ 
day? 

How could those peaks stand round so aloof and 
indifferent, and leave him here disconsolate and 
alone? 

What was it, this new rushing in his ears; this 
new rhythm of his pulse? He lay back at last in 
the bottom of the boat, with hands clasped be¬ 
hind his head, and let boat and all things drift. 

And when the glare of the rising sun came slant¬ 
ing into the boat and beat dazzlingly in his face, 
he only turned his head a little and let it shine 
full upon him. 

Now she is lying asleep over there, the morn¬ 
ing streaming red through her window—of whom 
is she dreaming as she sleeps? 

Have you ever seen such eyebrows before? To 
press one’s lips to them—to take her head be¬ 
tween one’s hand . . . and so it is to save your 
mother that you give up your own dreams, and 
to warm her soul that you keep that flame of glad¬ 
ness burning in you? Is that the sort you are? 

Merle—was ever such a name ? Are you called 
Merle? 

Hay spreads over the heavens, kindling all the 
night-clouds, great and small, to gold and scarlet. 
And here he lies, rocking, rocking, on no lake, but 
on a red stately-heaving ocean swell. 

Ah! till now your mind has been so filled with 
cold mechanics, with calculations, with steel and 
fire. More and more knowledge, ever more striv- 




The Great Hunger 


149 


ing to understand all things, to know all, to master 
all. But meanwhile, the tones of the hymn died 
within you, and the hunger for that which lies 
beyond all things grew ever fiercer and fiercer. 
You thought it was Norway that you needed—and 
now you are here. But is it enough? 

Merle—is your name Merle? 

There is nothing that can be likened to the first 
day of love. All your learning, your travel, and 
deeds and dreams—all has been nothing but dry 
firewood that you have dragged and heaped to¬ 
gether. And now has come a spark, and the whole 
heap blazes up, casting its red glow over earth 
and heaven, and you stretch out your cold hands, 
and warm them, and shiver with joy that a new 
bliss has come upon the earth. 

And all that you could not understand—the 
relation between the spark of eternity in your soul 
and the Power above, and the whole of endless 
space—has all of a sudden become so clear that 
you lie here trembling with joy at seeing to the 
very bottom of the infinite enigma. 

You have but to take her by the hand, and 
“Here are we two,” you say to the powers of life 
and death. “Here is she and here am I—we two” 
■—and you send the anthem rolling aloft—a strain 
from little Louise’s fiddle-bow mingling with it— 
not to the vaultings of any church, but into endless 
space itself. And Thou, Power above, now I 
understand Thee. How could I ever take seri¬ 
ously a Power that sat on high playing with Sin 





150 


The Great Hunger 


and Grace—-but now I see Thee, not the blood¬ 
thirsty Jehovah, but a golden-haired youth, the 
Light itself. We two worship Thee; not with a 
wail of prayer, but with a great anthem, that 
has the World-All in it. All our powers, our 
knowledge, our dreams—all are there. And each 
has its own instrument, its own voice in the mighty 
chorus. The dawn reddening over the hills is with 
us. The goat grazing on that northern hillside, 
dazzled with sun-gold when it turns its head to 
the east—it is with us, too. The waking birds are 
with us. A frog, crawling up out of a puddle 
and stopping to wonder at the morning—it is 
there. Even the little insect with diamonds on 
its wings—and the grass-blade with its pearl of 
dew, trying to mirror as much of the sky as it 
can—it is there, it is there, it is there. We are 
standing amid Love’s first day, and there is no 
more talk of grace or doubt or faith or need of 
aid; only a rushing sound of music rising to 
heaven from all the golden rivers in our hearts. 

The sseters were beginning to wake. Musical 
cries came echoing as the saeter-girls chid on the 
cattle, that moved slowly up to the northern 
heights, with lowings and tinkling of bells. But 
Peer lay still where he was—and presently the 
dairy-maid at the sseter caught sight of what 
seemed an empty boat drifting on the lake, and 
was afraid some accident had happened. 

‘‘Merle,” thought Peer, still lying motionless. 
“Is your name Merle V 7 




The Great Hunger 


151 


The dairy-maid was down by the waterside now, 
calling across toward the boat. And at last she 
saw a man sit np, rnbbing his eyes. 

46 Mercy on us!” she cried. ‘ 1 Lord be thanked 
that you’re there. And you haven’t been in the 
whole blessed night!” 

A goat with a broken leg, set in splints, had been 
left to stray at will about the cattle-pens and in 
and out of the house, while its leg-bones were set¬ 
ting. Peer must needs pick up the creature and 
carry it round for a while in his arms, though 
it at once began chewing at his beard. When he 
sat down to the breakfast-table, he found some¬ 
thing so touching in the look of the cream and but¬ 
ter, the bread and the coffee, that it seemed a man 
would need a heart of stone to be willing to eat 
such things. And when the old woman said he 
really ought to get some food into him, he sprang 
up and embraced her, as far as his arms would go 
round. 46 Nice carryings on!” she cried, strug¬ 
gling to free herself. But when he went so far 
as to imprint a sounding kiss on her forehead, 
she fetched him a mighty push. “Lord!” she 
said, “if the gomeril hasn’t gone clean out of his 
wits this last night!” 




Chapter IV 


Bingeby lay on the shore of a great lake; and 
was one of those busy commercial towns which 
have sprung up in the last fifty years from a 
nucleus consisting of a saw-mill and a flour-mill by 
the side of a waterfall. Now quite a number of 
modern factories had spread upwards along the 
river, and the place was a town with some four 
thousand inhabitants, with a church of its own, a 
monster of a school building, and numbers of yel¬ 
low workmen’s dwellings scattered about at ran¬ 
dom in every direction. Otherwise Bingeby was 
much like any other little town. There were two 
lawyers, who fought for scraps of legal business, 
and the editors of two local papers, who were con¬ 
stantly at loggerheads before the Conciliation 
Board. There was a temperance lodge and Work¬ 
ers 7 Union and a chapel and a picture palace. And 
every Sunday afternoon the good citizens of 
Bingeby walked out along the fjord, with their 
wives on their arms. On these occasions most of 
the men wore frock coats and grey felt hats; but 
Enebak, the tanner, being hunchbacked, preferred 
a tall silk hat, as better suited to eke out his 
height. 

On Saturday evenings, when twilight began to 




The Great Hunger 


153 


fall, the younger men wonld meet at the corner 
outside Hammer’s store, to discuss the events of 
the week. 

“Have you heard the latest news?” asked 
Lovli, the bank cashier, of his friend the tele¬ 
graphist, who came up. 

“News? Do you tell me that there’s ever any 
news in this accursed hole?” 

“Merle Uthoug has come back from the moun¬ 
tains—engaged to be married.” 

‘ 1 The devil she is! What does the old man say 
to that?” 

“Oh, well, the old man will want an engineer 
if he’s to get the new timber-mills into his 
clutches.” 

“Is the man an engineer?” 

“From Egypt. A Muhammadan, I daresay. 
Brown as a coffee-berry, and rolling in money. ’ ’ 

“Do you hear that, Froken Bull? Stop a min¬ 
ute, here’s some news for you.” 

The girl addressed turned aside and joined 
them. “Oh, the same piece of news that’s all over 
the town, I suppose. Well, I can tell you, he’s 
most tremendously nice. ’ ’ 

“ Sh! ” whispered the telegraphist. Peer Holm 
was just coming out of the Grand Hotel, dressed 
in a grey suit, and with a dark coat over his arm. 
He was trying to get a newly-lit cigar to draw, as 
he walked with a light elastic step past the group 
at the corner. A little farther up the street he 
encountered Merle, and took her arm, and the two 




154 


The Great Hunger 


walked off together, the young people at the cor¬ 
ner watching them as they went. 

“And when is it to be?” asked the telegraphist. 

“He wanted to be married immediately, I be¬ 
lieve,’ ’ said Froken Bull, “but I suppose they’ll 
have to wait till the banns are called, like other 
people.” 

Lorentz D. Uthoug’s long, yellow-painted 
wooden house stood facing the market square; the 
office and the big ironmonger’s shop were on the 
ground floor, and the family lived in the upper 
storeys. “That’s where he lives,” people would 
say. Or “There he goes,” as the broad, grey- 
bearded man passed down the street. Was he 
such a big man, then? He could hardly be called 
really rich, though he had a saw-mill and a ma¬ 
chine-shop and a flour-mill, and owned a country 
place some way out of the town. But there was 
something of the chieftain, something of the 
prophet, about him. He hated priests. He read 
deep philosophical works, forbade his family to 
go to church, and had been visited by Bjornson 
himself. It was good to have him on your side; 
to have him against you was fatal—you might 
just as well clear out of the town altogether. He 
had a finger in everything that went on; it was 
as if he owned the whole town. He had been 
known to meet a youth he had never spoken to 
before in the street and accost him with a per¬ 
emptory “Understand me, young man; you will 
marry that girl.” Yet for all this, Lorentz 




The Great Hunger 


155 


Uthoug was not altogether content. True, he was 
head and shoulders above all the Bingeby folks, 
but what he really wanted was to be the biggest 
man in a place a hundred times as large. 

And now that he had found a son-in-law, he 
seemed as it were to be walking quietly round 
this stranger from the great world, taking his 
measure, and asking in his thoughts: ‘‘Who are 
you at bottom? What have you seen? What 
have you read? Are you progressive or reac¬ 
tionary? Have you any proper respect for what 
I have accomplished here, or are you going about 
laughing in your sleeve and calling me a whale 
among the minnows?” 

Every morning when Peer woke in his room at 
the hotel he rubbed his eyes. On the table beside 
his bed stood a photograph of a young girl. 
What? Is it really you, Peer, that have found 
someone to stand close to you at last? Someone 
in the world who cares about you. When you 
have a cold, there ’ll be people to come round and 
be anxious about you, and ask how you are getting 
on. And this to happen to you! 

He dined at the Uthougs’ every day, and there 
were always flowers beside his plate. Often there 
would be some little surprise—a silver spoon or 
fork, or a napkin-ring with his initials on. It 
was like gathering the first straws to make his 
new nest. And the pale woman with the spec¬ 
tacles looked kindly at him, as if to say: “You 
are taking her from me, but I forgive you.” 




156 ' 


The Great Hunger 


One day he was sitting in the hotel, reading, 
when Merle came in. 

11 Will yon come for a walk?” she asked. 

“Good idea. Where shall we go to-day?” 

“Well, we haven’t been to see Annt Marit at 
Bruseth yet. We really onght to go, you know. 
I’ll take yon there to-day.” 

Peer found these ceremonial visits to his new 
relatives quite amusing; he went round, as it 
were, collecting uncles and aunts. And to-day 
there was a new one. Well, why not? 

“But—my dear girl, have you been crying?” 
he asked suddenly, taking her head in his hands. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. Come—let’s go now.” And 
she thrust him gently away as he tried to kiss her. 
But the next moment she dropped into a chair, 
and sat looking thoughtfully at him through half- 
closed eyes, nodding her head very slightly. She 
seemed to be asking herself: “Who is this man? 
What is this I am taking on me? A fortnight ago 
he was an utter stranger——” 

She passed her hand across her brow. “It’s 
mother—you know,” she said. 

“Is anything special wrong to-day?” 

“She’s so afraid you’re going to carry me off 
into the wide world at a moment’s notice.” 

‘But I’ve told her we’re going to live here for 
the present.” 

The girl drew up one side of her mouth in a 
smile, and her eyelids almost closed. “And what 




The Great Hunger 


157 


about me, then? After living here all these years 
crazy to get out into the world ?” 

“And I, who am crazy to stay at home!” said 
Peer with a laugh. “How delicious it will be to 
have a house and a family at last—and peace and 
quiet!” 

“But what about me?” 

“You’ll be there, too. I’ll let you live with me.” 

“Oh! how stupid you are to-day. If you only 
knew what it means, to throw away the best years 
of one’s youth in a hole like this! And besides— 
I could have done somthing worth while in 
music-” 

“Why, then, let’s go abroad, by all means,” 
said Peer, wrinkling up his forehead as if to 
laugh. 

“Oh, nonsense! you know it’s quite impossible 
to go off and leave mother now. But you certainly 
came at a very critical time. For anyway I was 
longing and longing just then for someone to come 
and carry me off.” 

“Aha! so I was only a sort of ticket for the 
tour.” He stepped over and pinched her nose. 

“Oh! you’d better be careful. I haven’t really 
promised yet to have you, you know.” 

“Haven’t promised? When you practically 
asked me yourself.” 

She clapped her hands together. “Why, what 
shameless impudence! After my saying No, No, 
No, for days together. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t— 
I said it ever so many times. And you said it 




158 


The Great Hunger 


didn’t matter—for you would. Yes, you took me 
most unfairly off my guard; but now look out for 
y ours elf.’’ 

The next moment she flung her arms round his 
neck. But when he tried to kiss her, she pushed 
him away again. “No,” she said, “you mustn’t 
think I did it for that!” 

Soon they were walking arm-in-arm along the 
country road, on their way to Aunt Marit at 
Bruseth. It was September, and all about the 
wooded hills stood yellow, and the cornfields were 
golden and the rowan berries blood-red. But 
there was still summer in the air. 

“Ugh! how impossibly fast you walk,” ex¬ 
claimed Merle, stopping out of breath. 

And when they came to a gate they sat down in 
the grass by the wayside. Below them was the 
town, with its many roofs and chimneys standing 
out against the shining lake, that lay framed in 
broad stretches of farm and field. 

“Do you know how it came about that mother 
is—as she is ? ” asked Merle suddenly. 

“No. I didn’t like to ask you about it.” 

She drew a stalk of grass between her lips. 

“Well, you see—mother’s father was a clergy¬ 
man. And when—when father forbade her to go 
to church, she obeyed him. But she couldn’t sleep 
after that. She felt—as if she had sold her soul.” 

“And what did your father say to that?” 

“Said it was hysteria. But, hysteria or not. 




The Great Hunger 


159 


mother couldn’t sleep. And at last they had to 
take her away to a home.” 

“Poor soul!” said Peer, taking the girl’s hand. 

“And when she came hack from there she was 
so changed, one would hardly have known her. 
And father gave way a little—more than he ever 
used to do—and said: ‘Well, well, I suppose you 
must go to church if you wish, but you mustn’t 
mind if I don’t go with you.’ And so one Sunday 
she took my hand and we went together, hut as we 
reached the church door, and heard the organ 
playing inside, she turned back. ‘No—it’s too 
late now,’ she said. ‘It’s too late, Merle.’ And 
she has never been since.” 

“And she has always been—strange—since 
then ? ’ ’ 

Merle sighed. “The worst of it is she sees so 
many evil things compassing her about. She says 
the only thing to do is to laugh them away. But 
she can’t laugh herself. And so I have to. But 
when I go away from her—oh! I can’t bear to 
think of it.” 

She hid her face against his shoulder, and he 
began stroking her hair. 

“Tell me, Peer”—she looked up with her one¬ 
sided smile—“who is right—mother or father?” 

“Have you been trying to puzzle that out?” 

“Yes. But it’s so hopeless—so impossible to 
come to any sort of certainty. What do you think? 
Tell me what you think, Peer.” 

They sat there alone in the golden autumn day, 




160 


The Great Hunger 


her head pressed against his shoulder. Why 
should he play the superior person and try to 
put her off with vague phrases? 

“Dear Merle, I know, of course, no more than 
you do. There was a time wdien I saw God stand¬ 
ing with a rod in one hand and a sugar-cake in 
the other—just punishment and rewards to all 
eternity. Then I thrust Him from me, because 
He seemed to me so unjust—and at last He van¬ 
ished, melting into the solar systems on high, and 
all the infinitesimal growths here on the earth 
below. What was my life, what were my dreams, 
my joy or sorrow, to these? Where was I mak¬ 
ing for? Ever and always there was something 
in me saying: He isl But where? Somewhere 
beyond and behind the things you know—it is 
there He is. And so I determined to know more 
things, more and more and more—and what wiser 
was I? A steam-hammer crushes my skull one 
day—and what has become of my part in progress 
and culture and science? Am I as much of an 
accident as a fly on an ant? Do I mean no more? 
Do I vanish and leave as little trace? Answer 
me that, little Merle—what do you think V* 

The girl sat motionless, breathing softly, with 
closed eyes. Then she began to smile—and her 
lips were full and red, and at last they shaped 
themselves to a kiss. 

Bruseth was a large farm lying high above the 
town, with its garden and avenues and long ve- 




The Great Hunger 


161 


randahs round the white dwelling-house. And 
what a view out over the lake and the country 
far around! The two stood for a moment at the 
gate, looking hack. 

Merle’s aunt—her father’s sister—was a widow, 
rich and a notable manager, but capricious to a 
degree, capable of being generous one day and 
grasping the next. It was the sorrow of her life 
that she had no children of her own, but she had 
not yet decided who was to be her heir. 

She came sailing into the room where the two 
young people were waiting, and Peer saw her 
coming towards them, a tall, full-bosomed woman 
with grey hair and florid colour. Oho! here’s an 
aunt for you with a vengeance, he thought. She 
pulled off a blue apron she was wearing and ap¬ 
peared dressed in a black woollen gown, with a 
gold chain about her neck and long gold earrings. 

“So you thought you’d come over at last,” she 
said. “Actually remembered my existence, after 
all, did you, Merle?” She turned towards Peer, 
and stood examining him, with her hands on her 
hips. “So that’s what you look like, is it, Peer? 
And you’re the man that was to catch Merle? 
Well, you see I call you Peer at once, even though 
you have come all the way from—Arabia, is it? 
Sit down, sit down.” 

Wine was brought in, and Aunt Marit of Bru- 
seth lifted a congratulatory glass toward the pair 
with the following words: 

“You’ll fight, of course. But don’t overdo it, 




162 


The Great Hunger 


that’s all. And mark my words, Peer Holm, if 
you aren’t good to her, I’ll come round one fine 
day and warm your ears for you. Your healths, 
children! ’ ’ 

The two went homewards arm-in-arm, dancing 
down the hillsides, and singing gaily as they went. 
But suddenly, when they were still some way 
from the town, Merle stopped and pointed. 
“There,” she whispered—“there’s mother!” 

A solitary woman was walking slowly in the 
twilight over a wide field of stubble, looking 
around her. It was as if she were lingering here 
to search out the meaning of something—of many 
things. From time to time she would glance up 
at the sky, or at the town below, or at people 
passing on the road, and then she would nod her 
head. How infinitely far off she seemed, how ut¬ 
terly a stranger to all the noisy doings of men! 
What was she seeing now? What were her 
thoughts? 

“Let us go on,” whispered Merle, drawing him 
with her. And the young girl suddenly began to 
sing, loudly, as if in an overflow of spirits; and 
Peer guessed that it was for her mother’s sake. 
Perhaps the lonely woman stood there now in 
the twilight smiling after them. 

One Sunday morning Merle drove up to the hotel 
in a light cart with a big brown horse; Peer came 
out and climbed in, leaving the reins to her. They 
were going out along the fjord to look at her 




The Great Hunger 


163 


father’s big estate which in olden days had been 
the Connty Governors’ official residence. 

It is the end of September. The snn is still 
warm, but the waters of the lake are grey and all 
the fields are reaped. Here and there a strip of 
yellowing potato-stalks lies waiting to be dug up. 
Up on the hillsides horses tethered for grazing 
stand nodding their heads slowly, as if they knew 
that it was Sunday. And a faint mist left by the 
damps of the night floats about here and there 
over the broad landscape. 

They passed through a wood, and came on the 
other side to an avenue of old ash trees, that 
turned up from the road and ran uphill to a big 
house where a flag was flying. The great white 
dwelling-house stood high, as if to look out far 
over the world; the red farm-buildings enclosed 
the wide courtyard on three sides, and below were 
gardens and broad lands, sloping down towards 
the lake. Something like an estate! 

“What’s the name of that place?” cried Peer, 
gazing at it. 

“Loreng.” 

“And who owns it?” 

“Don’t know,” answered the girl, cracking her 
whip. 

Next moment the horse turned in to the avenue, 
and Peer caught involuntarily at the reins. “Heil 
Brownie—where are you going?” he cried. 

“Why not go up and have a look?” said Merle*. 




164 


The Great Hunger 


“But we were going out to look at your father’s 
place.” 

“Well, that is father’s place.” 

Peer stared at her face and let go the reins. 
“What? What? You don’t mean to say your 
father owns that place there?” 

A few minutes later they were strolling through 
the great, low-ceiled rooms. The whole house was 
empty now, the farm-bailiff living in the servants ’ 
quarters. Peer grew more and more enthusiastic. 
Here, in these great rooms, there had been festive 
gatherings enough in the days of the old Gov¬ 
ernors, where cavaliers in uniform or with ele¬ 
gant shirt-frills and golden spurs had kissed the 
hands of ladies in sweeping silk robes. Old ma¬ 
hogany, pot-pourri, convivial song, wit, grace— 
Peer saw it all in his mind’s eye, and again and 
again he had to give vent to his feelings by seiz¬ 
ing Merle and embracing her. 

“Oh, but look here, Merle—you know, this is a 
fairy-tale. ’ ’ 

They passed out into the old neglected garden 
with its grass-grown paths and well-filled carp- 
ponds and tumble-down pavilions. Peer rushed 
about it in all directions. Here, too, there had 
been fetes, with coloured lamps festooned around, 
and couples whispering in the shade of every bush. 
“Merle, did you say your father was going to sell 
all this to the State?” 

“Yes, that’s what it will come to, I expect,” 
she answered. “The place doesn’t pay, he says. 




The Great Hunger 


165 


when he can’t live here himself to look after it.” 

‘‘But what nse can the State make of it?” 

“Oh, a Home for Imbeciles, I believe.” 

“Good Lord! I might have guessed it! An 
idiot asylum—to be sure.” He tramped about, 
fairly jumping with excitement. “Merle, look 
here—will you come and live here?” 

She threw back her head and looked at him. “I 
ask you, Merle. Will you come and live here ? ’’ 

“Do you want me to answer this moment, on 
the spot?” 

“Yes. For I want to buy it this moment, on 
the spot.” 

“Well, aren’t you-” 

“Look, Merle, just look at it all. That long 
balcony there, with the doric columns—nothing 
shoddy about that—it’s the real thing. Empira 
I know something about it.” 

“But it’ll cost a great deal, Peer.” There was 
some reluctance in her voice. Was she thinking 
of her violin? Was she loth to take root too 
firmly? 

“A great deal?” he said. “What did your 
father give for it?” 

“The place was sold by auction, and he got it 
cheap. Fifty thousand crowns, I think it was.” 

Peer strode off towards the house again. 
“We’ll buy it. It’s the very place to make into 
a home. . . . Horses, cattle, sheep, goats, cottars 
—ah! it’ll be grand.” 

Merle followed him more slowly. “But, Peer, 




166 


The Great Hunger 


remember you’ve just taken over father’s ma¬ 
chine-shops in town.” 

“Pooh!” said Peer scornfully. “Do you think 
I can’t manage to run that village smithy and 
live here too! Come along, Merle.” And he took 
her hand and drew her into the house again. 

It was useless to try to resist. He dragged her 
from room to room, furnishing as he went along. 
“This room here is the dining-room—and that’s 
the big reception-room; this will be the study— 
that’s a boudoir for you. . . . Come now; to-mor¬ 
row we’ll go into Christiania and buy the furni¬ 
ture.” 

Merle gasped for breath. He had got so far 
by this time that the furnishing was complete 
and they were installed. They had a governess 
already, and he was giving parties too. Here 
was the ballroom. He slipped an arm round her 
waist and danced round the room with her, till 
she was carried away by his enthusiasm, and 
stood flushed and beaming, while all she had 
dreamed of finding some day out in the wide world 
seemed suddenly to unfold around her here in 
these empty rooms. Was this really to be her 
home? She stopped to take breath and to look 
around her. 

Late that evening Peer sat at the hotel with a 
note-book, working the thing out. He had bought 
Loreng; his father-in-law had been reasonable, 
and had let him have the place, lands and woods 
ond all, for the ridiculous price he had paid him- 




The Great Hunger 


167 


self. There was a mortgage of thirty thousand 
crowns on the estate. Well, that might stand as 
it was, for the bulk of Peer’s money was tied up 
in Ferdinand Holm’s company. 

A few days after he carried Merle off to the 
capital, leaving the carpenters and painters hard 
at work at Loreng. 

One day he was sitting alone at the hotel in 
Christiania—Merle was out shopping—when there 
was a very discreet knock at the door. 

“Come in,” called Peer. And in walked a mid¬ 
dle-sized man, of thirty or more, dressed in a 
black frock-coat with a large-patterned vest, and 
his dark hair carefully combed over a bald patch 
on the crown. He had a red, cheery face; his 
eyes were of the brightest blue, and the whole 
man breathed and shone with good humour. 

“I am TJthoug junior,” said the new-comer, 
with a bow and a laugh. 

‘‘ Oh—that’s capital. ’ ’ 

“Just come across from Manchester—beastly 
voyage. Thanks, thanks—I’ll find a seat.” He 
sat down, and flung one striped trouser-leg over 
the other. 

Peer sent for some wine, and in half an hour 
the two were firm allies. Uthoug junior’s life- 
story to date was quickly told. He had run away 
from home because his father had refused to let 
him go on the stage—had found on trial that in 
these days there weren’t enough theatres to go 
round—then had set up in business for himself, 




168 


The Great Hunger 


and now had a general agency for the sale of 
English tweeds, “Freedom, freedom,’’ was his 
idea; “lots of elbow-room—room to tnrn abont in 
—without with your leave or by your leave to 
father or anyone! Your health!” 

A week later the street outside Lorentz D. 
Uthoug’s house in Ringeby was densely crowded 
with people, all gazing up at the long rows of 
lighted windows. There was feasting to-night in 
the great man’s house. About midnight a car¬ 
riage drove up to the door. “That’s the bride¬ 
groom ’s, ’ ’ whispered a bystander. ‘ ‘ He got those 
horses from Denmark!” 

The street door opened, and a white figure, 
thickly cloaked, appeared on the steps. “The 
bride!” whispered the crowd. Then a slender man 
in a dark overcoat and silk hat. “The bride¬ 
groom!” And as the pair passed out, “Hip-hip- 

hip-” went the voice of the general agent for 

English tweeds, and the hurrahs came with a will. 

The carriage moved off, and Peer sat, with his 
arm round his bride, driving his horses at a sharp 
trot out along the fjord. Out towards his home, 
towards his palace, towards a new and untried 
future. 





Chapter V 


A little shaggy, grey-bearded old man stood 
chopping and sawing in the wood-shed at Loreng. 
He had been there longer than anyone could re¬ 
member. One master left, another took his place 
—what was that to the little man? Didn’t the 
one need firewood—and didn’t the other need fire¬ 
wood just the same? In the evening he crept np 
to his den in the loft of the servants’ wing; at 
meal-times he sat himself down in the last seat 
at the kitchen-table, and it seemed to him that 
there was always food to he had. Nowadays the 
master’s name was Holm—an engineer he was— 
and the little man blinked at him with his eyes, 
and went on chopping in the shed. If they came 
and told him he was not wanted and must go— 
why, thank heaven, he was stone deaf, as every¬ 
one knew. Thnd, thud, went his axe in the shed; 
and the others abont the place were so nsed to 
it that they heeded it no more than the ticking of 
a clock npon the wall. 

In the kitchen of the big house two girls stood 
by the window peeping out into the garden and 
giggling. 

“There he is again,” said Laura. “Sh! don’t 
laugh so loud. There! now he’s stopping again!” 




170 


The Great Hunger 


1 4 He’s whistling to a bird,” said Oliana. “Or 
talking to himself perhaps. Do you think he’s 
quite right in his head?” 

“ Sh! The mistress ’ll hear. ’ 9 

It was no less a person than the master of Lo- 
reng himself whose proceedings struck them as so 
comic. 

Peer it was, wandering about in the great neg¬ 
lected garden, with his hands in the pockets of his 
knickerbockers and his cap on the back of his 
head, stopping here and there, and moving on 
again as the fancy took him. Sometimes he would 
hum a snatch of a song, and again fall to whis¬ 
tling ; here he would pick up a twig and look at it, 
or again it might be a bird, or perhaps an old 
neglected apple-tree that seemed worth stopping 
to talk to. The best of it was that these were 
his own lands and his own woods that lay there 
in the rusty October sunshine. Was all that noth¬ 
ing? And the hill over on the farther shore, 
standing on its head in the dark lake-mirror, 
clothed in a whole world of colour—yellow leaves 
and green leaves, and light red and dark red, and 
golden and blood-red patches, with the dark green 
of the pines between. His eyes had all this to 
rest on. Did he really live here? What abun¬ 
dant fruitfulness all around him! What a sky, 
so wide, so golden that it seemed to ring again. 
The potato-stalks lay uprooted, scattered on the 
fields; the com was safely housed. And here he 
stood. He seemed again to be drawing in nourish- 




The Great Hunger 


171 


ment from all he saw, drinking it greedily. The 
empty places in his mind were filled; the sight of 
the rich soft landscape worked on his being, giv¬ 
ing it something of its own abundant fruitfulness, 
its own wide repose. 

And—what next? 

“What next?” he mimicked in his thoughts, 
and started again tramping up and down the gar¬ 
den paths. What next—what next? Could he not 
afford now to take his time—to rest a little? 
Every man must have an end in view—must strive 
to reach this goal or that. And what was his 
object now? What was it he had so toiled for, 
from those hard years in the loft above the stable 
even until now? What was it? Often it seemed 
as if everything were going smoothly, going of 
itself; as if one day, surely, he would find his 
part in a great, happy world-harmony. But had 
he not already found it? What more would he 
have? Of course he had found it. 

But is this all, then ? What is there behind and 
beyond? Hush! have done with questioning. 
Look at the beauty around you. Here is peace, 
peace and rest. 

He hurried up to the house, and in—it might 
help matters if he could take his wife in his arms; 
perhaps get her to come out with him a while. 

Merle was in the pantry, with a big apron on, 
ranging jars of preserves on the shelves. 

“Here, dearest little wife,” cried Peer, throw- 




172 


The Great Hunger 


ing his arms about her, * 1 what do you say to a 
little run?” 

“Now! Do you suppose a housewife has noth¬ 
ing better to do than gad about? Uf 1 my hair! 
you’ll make it come down.” 

Peer took her arm and led her over to a window 
looking out on the lake. *‘There, dearest! Isn’t 
it lovely here?” 

“Peer, you’ve asked me that twenty times a 
day ever since we came.” 

“Yes, and you never answer. And you’ve never 
once yet run and thrown your arms round my 
neck and said how happy you were. And it’s 
never yet come to pass that you’ve given me a 
single kiss of your own accord.” 

“I should think not, when you steal such a lot.” 
And she pushed him aside, and slipped under Ms 
arm, and ran out of the room. “I must go in and 
see mother again to-day,” she said as she went. 

“Huit! Of course!” He paced up and down 
the room, his step growing more and more impa¬ 
tient. “In to mother—in to mother! Always 
and everlastingly mother and mother and nothing 
else. Huit!” and he began to whistle. 

Merle put her head in at the door. “Peer— 
have you such a terrible lot of spare time?” 

“Well, yes and no! I’m busy enough looking 
about in every corner here for something or an¬ 
other. But I can’t find it, and I don’t even know 
exactly what it is. Oh well, yes—I have plenty 
of time to spare.” 




The Great Hunger 


173 


“But what about the farm?” 

“Well, there’s the dairy-woman in the cow¬ 
house, and the groom in the stables, and the bailiff 
to worry the tenants and workpeople. What am 
I to do—poke around making improvements?” 

“But what about the machine-shop?” 

“Don’t I go in twice a day—cycle over tu see 
how things are going? But with Rode for man¬ 
ager—that excellent and high-principled engi¬ 
neer-” 

“Surely you could help him in some way?” 

“He’s got to go on running along the line of 
rails he’s used to—nothing else for it, my darling. 
And four or five thousand crowns a year, net 
profit—why, it’s magnificent!” 

“But couldn’t you extend the business?” 

He raised his eyebrows, and his mouth pursed 
itself up. 

“Extend—did you say extend? Extend a—a 
doll’s house!” 

“Oh, Peer, you shouldn’t laugh at it—a thing 
that father took so much pains to set going!” 

“And you shouldn’t go worrying me to get to 
work again in earnest, Merle. You shouldn’t 
really. One of these days I might discover that 
there’s no way to be happy in the world but to 
drag a plough and look straight ah^ad and forget 
that there’s anything else in existence. It may 
come to that one day—but give me a little breath¬ 
ing-space first, and you love me. Well, good-bye 
for a while.” 





174 


The Great Hunger 


Merle, busying herself again in her pantry, 
glanced out of the window and saw him disappear 
into the stables. At first she had gone with him 
when he wandered about like this, touching and 
feeling all his possessions. In the cattle-stalls, 
it might be, stroking and patting, getting himself 
covered with hairs, and chattering away in child¬ 
ish glee. “Look, Merle—this cow is mine, child! 
Dagros her name is—and she’s mine. We have 
forty of them—and they’re all mine. And that 
nag there—what a sight he is! We have eight 
of them. They’re mine. Yours too, of course. 
But you don’t care a bit about it. You haven’t 
even hugged any of them yet. But when a man’s 
been as poor as I’ve been—and suddenly wakened 

up one day and found he owned all this- No, 

wait a minute, Merle—come and kiss old 
Brownie.” She knew the ritual now—he could 
go over it all again and again, and each time with 
the same happy wonder. Was it odious of her 
that she was beginning to find it a little comic! 
And how did it come about that often, when she 
might be filled with the deepest longing for him, 
and he burst in upon her boisterously, hungry for 
her caresses, she would grow suddenly cold, and 
put him aside! What was the matter? Why did 
she behave like this? 

Perhaps it was because he was so much the 
stronger, so overwhelming in his effect on her 
that she had to keep a tight hold on herself to 
avoid being swept clean away and losing her iden- 




The Great Hunger 


175 


tity. At one moment they might be sitting in the 
lamplight, chatting easily together, and so near 
in heart and mind; and the next it would be over 
•—he would suddenly have started up and be pac¬ 
ing up and down the room, delivering a sort of 
lecture. Merle—isn’t it marvellous, the spiritual 
life of plants? And then would come a torrent of 
talk about strange plant-growths in the north and 
in the south, plants whose names she had never 
even heard—their struggle for existence, their 
loves and longings, their heroism in disease, the 
divine marvel of their death. Their inventions, 
their wisdom, aye, their religious sense—is it not 
■marvellous, Merle? From this it was only a step 
to the earth’s strata, fossils, crystals—a fresh 
lecture. And finally he would sum up the whole 
into one great harmony of development, from 
the primary cell-life to the laws of gravitation 
that rule the courses of the stars. Was it not 
marvellous ? One common rhythm beating through 
the universe—a symphony of worlds!—And then 
he must have a kiss! 

But she could only draw back and put him gen¬ 
tly aside. It was as if he came with all his stored- 
up knowledge—his lore of plants and fossils, 
crystals and stars—and poured it all out in a 
caress. She could almost have cried out for help. 
And after hurrying her through the wonders of 
the universe in this fashion, he would suddenly 
catch her up in his arms, and whirl her off in a 
passionate intoxication of the senses till she woke 





176 


The Great Hunger 


at last like a castaway on an island, hardly know¬ 
ing where or what she was. She laughed, but she 
could have found it in her heart to weep. Could 
this be love? In this strong man, whose life till 
now had been all study and work, the stored-up 
feeling burst vehemently forth, now that it had 
found an outlet. But why did it leave her so cold? 

When Peer came in from the stables, humming 
a tune, he found her in the sitting-room, dressed 
in a dark woollen dress with a red ribbon round 
her throat. 

He stopped short: “By Jove—how that suits 
you, Merle!” 

She let her eyes linger on him for a moment, 
and then came up and threw her arms round his 
neck. 

“Did he have to go to the stables all alone to¬ 
day?” 

“Yes; IVe been having a chat with the young 
colt.” 

“Am I unkind to you, Peer?” 

“You?—you!” 

“Not even if I ask you to drive me in to see 
mother?” 

“Why, that’s the very thing. The new horse I 
bought yesterday from Captain Mykre should be 
here any minute—I’m just waiting for it.” 

“A new horse—to ride?” 

“Yes. Hang it—I must get some riding. I had 
to handle Arab horses for years. But we’ll try 
this one in the gig first.” 




The Great Hunger 


177 


Merle was still standing with her arms round 
his neck, and now she pressed her warm rich lips 
to his, close and closer. It was at such moments 
that she loved him—when he stood trembling with 
a joy unexpected, that took him unawares. She 
too trembled, with a blissful thrill through soul 
and body; for once and at last it was she who 
gave. 

“Ah!” he breathed at last, pale with emotion. 
‘ ‘ I—I ’d be glad to die like that.’ y 

A little later they stood on the balcony looking 
over the courtyard, when a bearded farm-hand 
came up with a big light-maned chestnut horse 
prancing in a halter. The beast stood still in the 
middle of the yard, flung up its head, and neighed, 
and the horses in the stable neighed in answer. 

“Oh, what a beauty!” exclaimed Merle, clap¬ 
ping her hands. 

“Put him into the gig,” called Peer to the 
stable-boy who had come out to take the horse. 

The man touched his cap. “Horse has never 
been driven before, sir, I was to say.” 

“Everything must have a beginning,” said 
Peer. 

Merle glanced at him. But they were both 
dressed to go out when the chestnut came dancing 
up before the door with the gig. The white hoofs 
pawed impatiently, the head was high in the air, 
and the eyes flashed fire—he wasn’t used to hav¬ 
ing shafts pressing on his sides and wheels rum¬ 
bling just behind him. Peer lit a cigar. 




178 


The Great Hunger 


“You’re not going to smoke?” Merle burst out. 

“Just to show him I’m not excited,” said Peer. 

No sooner bad they taken their seats in the gig 
than the beast began to snort and rear, but the 
long lash flicked out over its neck, and a minute 
later they were tearing off in a cloud of dust to¬ 
wards the town. 

Winter came—and a real winter it was. Peer 
moved about from one window to another, calling 
all the time to Merle to come and look. He had 
been away so long—the winter of Eastern Norway 
was all new to him. Look—look! A world of 
white—a frozen white tranquillity—woods, plains, 
lakes all in white, a fairy-tale in sunlight, a dream¬ 
land at night under the great bright moon. There 
was a ringing of sleigh-bells out on the lake, and 
up in the snow-powdered forest; the frost stood 
thick on the horses’ manes and the men’s beards 
were hung with icicles. And in the middle of the 
night loud reports of splitting ice would come from 
the lake—sounds to make one sit up in bed with a 
start. 

Driving’s worth while in weather like this— 
come, Merle. The new stallion from Gudbrandsdal 
wants breaking in—we’ll take him. Hallo! and 
away they go in their furs, swinging out over the 
frozen lake, whirling on to the bare glassy ice, 
where they skid and come near capsizing, and 
Merle screams—but they get on to snow, and hoofs 
and runners grip again. None of your galloping 




The Great Hunger 


179 


—trot now, trot! And Peer cracks his whip. The 
black, long-maned Gudbrandsdaler lifts his head 
and trots out. And the evening comes, and under 
the wide and starry sky they dash np again to 
Loreng—Loreng that lies there lighting them 
home with its long rows of glowing windows. A 
glorious day, wife! 

Or they would go out on ski over the hills to 
the woodmen’s huts in the forest, and make a 
blazing fire in the big chimney and drink steaming 
coffee. Then home again through one of those 
pale winter evenings with a violet twilight over 
woods and fields and lake, over white snow and 
blue. Far away on the brown hillside in the west 
stands a farmhouse, with all its windows flaming 
with the reflection from a golden cloud. Here 
they come rushing, the wind of their passing shak¬ 
ing the snow from the pines; on, on, over deep- 
rutted woodcutters’ roads, over stumps and stones 
—falling, bruising themselves, burying their faces 
deep in the snow, but dragging themselves up 
again, smiling to each other and rushing on again. 
Then, reaching home red and dripping, they lean 
the ski up against the wall, and stamp the snow 
off their boots. 

“Merle,” said Peer, picking the ice from his 
beard, “we must have a bottle of Burgundy at 
dinner to-night.” 

“Yes—and shall we ring up and ask someone 
to come over?” 




180 


The Great Hunger 


“Someone—from outside! Can’t we two have 
a little jollification all to ourselves!” 

“Yes, yes, of course, if you like.” 

A shower-bath—a change of underclothes—how 
delicious! And—an idea! He’ll appear at dinner 
in evening dress, just for a surprise. But as he 
entered the room he stopped short. For there 
stood Merle herself in evening dress—a dress of 
dark red velvet, with his locket round her neck and 
the big plaits of hair rolled into a generous knot 
low on her neck. Flowers on the table—the wine 
set to warm—the finest glass, the best silver— 
ptarmigan—how splendid! They lift their glasses 
filled with the red wine and drink to each other. 

The frozen winter landscape still lingered in 
their thoughts, but the sun had warmed their 
souls; they laughed and jested, held each other’s 
hands long, and sat smiling at each other in long 
silences. 

“A glorious day to-day, Merle. And to-morrow 
we die. ’ ’ 

“What do you say!—to-morrow!” 

“Or fifty years hence. It comes to the same 
thing.” He pressed her hand and his eyes half 
closed. 

“But this evening we’re together—and what 
could we want more! ’ ’ 

Then he fell to talking of his Egyptian experi¬ 
ences. He had once spent a month’s holiday in 
visiting ruined cities with Maspero, the great Mas- 
pero himself, going with him to Luxor, to Karnak, 




The Great Hunger 


181 


with its great avenues of sphinxes, to El Amarna 
and Shubra. They had looked on ancient cities of 
temples and king’s mausoleums, where men thou¬ 
sands of years dead lay as if lost in thought, with 
eyes wide open, ready at any moment to rise and 
call out: Slave, is the bath ready? There in the 
middle of a cornfield rises an obelisk. You ask 
what it is—it is all that is left of a royal city. 
There, too, a hundred thousand years ago maybe, 
young couples have sat together, drinking to each 
other in wine, revelling in all the delights of love 
—and where are they now? Aye, where are they, 
can you tell me? 

4 ‘When that journey was over, Merle, I began 
to think that it was not mere slime of the Nile 
that fertilised the fields; it was the mouldered 
bodies of the dead. I rode over dust that had 
been human fingers, lips that had clung in kisses. 
Millions and millions of men and women have 
lived on those river-banks, and what has become 
of them now? Geology. And I thought of the 
millions of prayers wailed out there to the sun 
and stars, to stone idols in the temples, to croco¬ 
diles and snakes and the river itself, the sacred 
river. And the air, Merle—the air received them, 
and vibrated for a second—and that was all. And 
even so our prayers go up, to this very day. We 
press our warm lips to a cold stone, and think to 
leave an impression. SJcaal!” 

But Merle did not touch her glass; she sat still, 
with her eyes on the yellow lampshade. She had 




182 


The Great Hunger 


not yet given up all her dreams of going forth and 
conquering the world with her music—and he sat 
there rolling out eternity itself before her, while 
he and she herself, her parents, all, all became as 
chaff blown before the wind and vanished. 

“What, won’t you drink with me? Well, well— 
then I must pledge you by myself. Skaal!" 

And being well started on his travellers’ tales 
he went on with them, but now in a more cheer¬ 
ful vein, so that she found it possible to smile. 
He told of the great lake-swamps, with their 
legions of birds, ibis, pelicans, swans, flamingos, 
herons, and storks—a world of long beaks and 
curved breasts and stilt-like legs and shrieking and 
beating of wings. Most wonderful of all it was to 
stand and watch and be left behind when the birds 
of passage flew northward in their thousands in 
the spring. My love to Norway, he would say, 
as they passed. And in the autumn to see them 
return, grey goose, starling, wagtail, and all the 
rest. ‘ ‘ How goes it now at home ? ” he would think 
—and “Next time I’ll go with you,” he would 
promise himself year after year. 

1 ‘ And here I am at last! Slcaal! 99 

“Welcome home,” said Merle, lifting her glass 
with a smile. 

He rang the bell. “What do you want?” her 
eyes asked. 

“Champagne,” said Peer to the maid, who ap¬ 
peared and vanished again. 

“Are you crazy, Peer?” 




The Great Hunger 


183 


He leaned back, flushed and in happy mood, 
lit a cigarette and told of his greatest triumph out 
there; it was after he had finished his work at the 
cataracts, and had started again with a branch of 
the English firm in Alexandria. One morning in 
walked the Chief and said: “Now, gentlemen, 
here’s a chance for a man that has the stuff in him 
to win his spurs—who’s ready?” And half a 
score of voices answered “I.” “Well, here’s the 
Bang of Abyssinia suddenly finds he must be in 
the fashion and have a railway—couple of hun¬ 
dred miles of it—what do you say to that?” 
‘‘ Splendid, ’ ’ we cried in chorus. ‘ 4 Well, but we’ve 
got to compete with Germans, and Swiss, and 
Americans—and we’ve got to win.” “Of course’’ 
—a louder chorus still. “Now, I’m going to take 
two men and give them a free hand. They’ll go 
up there and survey and lay out lines, and work 
out the whole project thoroughly, both from the 
technical and the financial side—and a project 
that’s better and cheaper than the opposition ones. 
Eight months’ work for a good man, but I must 
have it done in four. Take along assistants and 
equipment—all you need—and a thousand pounds 
premium to the man who puts it through so that 
we get the job.” 

“Peer—were you sent?” Merle half rose from 
her seat in her excitement. 

“I—and one other.” 

“Who was that?” 

“His name was Ferdinand Holm.” 




184 


The Great Hunger 


Merle smiled lier one-sided smile, and locked at 
him through her long lashes. She knew it had 
been the dream of his life to beat that half-brother 
of his in fair fight. And now! 

“And what came of it?” she asked, with a seem¬ 
ing careless glance at the lamp. 

Peer flung away his cigarette. “First an ex¬ 
pedition up the Nile, then a caravan journey, 
camels and mules and assistants and provisions 
and instruments and tents and quinine—heaps of 
quinine. Have you any idea, I wonder, what a job 
like that means? The line was to run through 
forests and tunnels, over swamps and torrents and 
chasms, and everything had to be planned and 
estimated at top speed—material, labour, time, 
cost and all. It was all very well to provide for 
the proper spans and girders for a viaduct, and 
estimate for thoroughly sound work in casting and 
erecting—but even then it would be no good if the 
Germans could come along and say their bridge 
looked handsomer than ours. It was a job that 
would take a good man eight months, and I had 
to get it done in four. There are just twelve hours 
in a day, it’s true—but then there are twelve more 
hours in the night. Fever? Well, yes. And sun¬ 
stroke—yes, both men and beasts went down with 
that. Maps got washed out by the rain. I lost 
my best assistant by snakebite. But such things 
didn’t count as hindrances, they couldn’t be al¬ 
lowed to delay the work. If I lost a man, it siim 
ply meant so much more work for me. After a 




The Great Hunger 


185 


couple of months a blacksmith’s hammer started 
thumping in the back of my head, and when I 
closed my eyes for a couple of hours at night, little 
fiery snakes went wriggling about in my brain. 
Tired out? When I looked in the glass, my eyes 
were just two red balls in my head. But when the 
four months were up, I was back in the Chief’s 
office.” 

“And—and Ferdinand Holm?” 

“Had got in the day before.” 

Merle shifted a little in her seat. “And so—he 
won?” 

Peer lit another cigarette. “No,” he said—the 
cigarette seemed to draw rather badly—“I won. 
And that’s how I came to be building railways in 
Abyssinia.” 

“Here’s the champagne,” said Merle. And as 
the wine foamed in the glasses, she rose and drank 
to him. She said nothing, only looked at him with 
eyes half veiled, and smiled. But a wave of fire 
went through him from head to foot. 

“I feel like playing to-night,” she said. 

It was rarely that she played, though he had 
often begged her to. Since they had been married 
she had seemed loth to touch her violin, feeling 
perhaps some vague fear that it would disturb her 
peace and awaken old longings. 

Peer sat on the sofa, leaning forward with his 
head in his hands, listening. And there she stood, 
at the music-stand, in her red dress, flushed and 




186 


The Great Hunger 


warm, and shining in the yellow lamplight, play¬ 
ing. 

Then suddenly the thought of her mother came 
to her, and she went to the telephone. 4 4 Mother— 
are you there, mother? Oh, weVe had such a 
glorious day. ’ ’ And the girl ran on, as if trying to 
light up her mother’s heart with some rays of the 
happiness her own happy day had brought her. 

A little later Peer lay in bed, while Merle flitted 
about the room, lingering over her toilet. 

He watched her as she stood in her long white 
gown before the toilet-table with the little green- 
shaded lamps, doing her hair for the night in a 
long plait. Neither of them spoke. He could see 
her face in the glass, and saw that her eyes were 
watching him, with a soft, mysterious glance—the 
scent of her hair seemed to fill the place with 
youth. 

She turned round towards him and smiled. And 
he lay still, beckoning her towards him with shin¬ 
ing eyes. All that had passed that evening—their 
outing, and the homeward journey in the violet 
dusk, their little feast, and his story, the wine— 
all had turned to love in their hearts, and shone 
out now in their smile. 

It may be that some touch of the cold breath of 
the eternities was still in their minds, the remem¬ 
brance of the millions on millions that die, the 
flight of the aeons towards endless darkness; yet 
in spite of all, the minutes now to come, their warm 
embrace, held a whole world of bliss, that out- 




The Great Hunger 


187 


weighed all, and made Peer, as he lay there, long 
to send out a hymn of praise into the universe, be¬ 
cause it was so wonderful to live. 

He began to understand why she lingered and 
took so long. It was a sign that she wanted to 
surprise him, that her heart was kind. And her 
light breathing seemed even now to fill the room 
with love. 

Outside in the night the lake-ice, splitting into 
new crevices, sent up loud reports; and the winter 
sky above the roof that sheltered them was lit with 
all its stars. 




Chapter VI 


For the next few years Peer managed his estate 
and his workshop, without giving too much of his 
time to either. He had his bailiff and his works- 
manager, and the work went on well enough in its 
accustomed grooves. If anyone had asked him 
what he actually did himself all the time, he would 
have found it hard to answer. He seemed to be 
going round gathering up something not clearly 
defined. There was something wanting—some¬ 
thing missed that now had to be made good. It 
was not knowledge now, but life—life in his na¬ 
tive land, the life of youth, that he reached out to 
grasp. The youth in him, that had never had free 
play in the years of early manhood, lay still 
dammed up, and had to find an outlet. 

There were festive gatherings at Loreng. Long 
rows of sleighs drove in the winter evenings up 
from the town and back again. Tables were spread 
and decked with glass and flowers, the rooms were 
brightly lit, and the wine was good. And some¬ 
times in the long moonlit nights respectable citi¬ 
zens would be awakened by noisy mirth in the 
streets of the little town, and, going to the window 
in their night-shirts, would see sleighs come gal¬ 
loping down, with a jangle of bells, full of laugh- 
188 




The Great Hunger 


189 


mg, singing young people, returning from some 
excursion far up in the hills, where there had been 
feasting and dancing. Here a young lawyer— 
newly married and something of a privileged buf¬ 
foon—was sitting on the lap of somebody else’s 
wife, playing a concertina, and singing at the top 
of his voice. “Some of that Loreng man’s doings 
again , 9 9 people would say. *‘ The place has never 
been the same since he came here.” And they 
would get back to bed again, shaking their heads 
and wondering what things were coming to. 

Peer drove out, too, on occasion, to parties at 
the big country houses round, where they would 
play cards all night and have champagne sent up 
to their rooms next morning, the hosts being men 
who knew how to do things in style. This was 
glorious. Not mathematics or religion any more 
—what he needed now was to assimilate something 
of the country life of his native land. He was 
not going to be a stranger in his own country. 
He wanted to take firm root and be able to feel, 
like others, that he had a spot in the world where 
he was at home. 

Then came the sunny day in June when he stood 
by Merle’s bed, and she lay there smiling faintly 
her one-sided smile, with a newborn girl on her 
arm. 

“What are we to call her, Peer?” 

“Why, we settled that long ago. After your 
mother, of course.” 

“Of course her name’s to be Louise,” said 




190 


The Great Hunger 


Merle, turning the tiny red face towards her 
breast. 

This came as a fresh surprise. She had been 
planning it for weeks perhaps, and now it took 
him unawares like one of her spontaneous caresses, 
but this time a caress to his inmost soul. 

He made a faint attempt at a joke. “Oh well, 
I never have any say in my own house. I suppose 
you must have it your own way.” He stroked 
her forehead; and when she saw how deeply moved 
he was, she smiled up at him with her most radiant 
smile. 

On one of the first days of the hay-harvest, 
Peer lay out on a sunny hillside with his head 
resting on a haycock, watching his people at work. 
The mowing machine was buzzing down by the 
lake, the spreader at work on the hill-slopes, the 
horses straining in front, the men sitting behind 
driving. The whole landscape lay around h i m 
breathing summer and fruitfulness. And he him¬ 
self lay there sunk in his own restful quiet. 

A woman in a light dress and a yellow straw 
hat came down the field road, pushing a child’s 
cart before her. It was Merle, and Merle was 
looking round her, and humming as she came. 
Since the birth of her child her mind was at peace; 
it was clear that she was scarcely dreaming now 
of conquering the world with her music—there 
was a tiny being in the little cart that claimed all 
her dreams. Never before had her skin been so 
dazzling, her smile so red; it was as if her youth 




The Great Hunger 


191 


now first blossomed out in all its fullness; her 
eyes seemed opened wide in a dear surprise. 

After a while Peer went down and drove the 
mowing machine himself. He felt as if he must 
get to work somehow or other to provide for his 
wife and child. 

But suddenly he stopped, got down, and began 
to walk round the machine and examine it closely. 
His face was all alert now, his eyes keen and 
piercing. He stared at the mechanism of the 
blades, and stood awhile thinking. 

What was this ? A happy idea was beginning to 
work in his mind. Vague only as yet—there was 
still time to thrust it aside. Should he? 

Warm mild days and luminous nights. Some¬ 
times he could not sleep for thinking how delicious 
it was to lie awake and see the sun come up. 

On one such night he got up and dressed. A 
few minutes later there was a trampling of hoofs 
in the stable-yard and the chestnut stallion ap¬ 
peared, with Peer leading him. He swung himself 
into the saddle, and trotted off down the road, a 
white figure in his drill suit and cork helmet. 

Where was he going? Nowhere. It was a 
change, to be up at an unusual hour and see the 
day break on a July morning. 

He trotted along at an easy pace, rising lightly 
in the stirrups, and enjoying the pleasant warmth 
the rider feels. All was quiet around him, the 
homesteads still asleep. The sky was a pearly 




192 


The Great Hunger 


white, with here and there a few golden clouds, 
reflected in the lake below. And the broad 
meadows still spread their many-colonred flower- 
carpet abroad; there was a scent in the air of leaf 
and meadow-grass and pine, he drew in deep 
breaths of it and could have sung aloud. 

He turned into the by-road up the hill, dismount¬ 
ing now and again to open a gate; past farms and 
little cottages, ever higher and higher, till at last 
he reached the topmost ridge, and halted in a clear¬ 
ing. The chestnut threw up his head and sniffed 
the air; horse and rider were wet with the dew- 
drip from the trees, that were now just flushing 
in the first glow of the coming sun. Far below 
was the lake, reflecting sky and hills and farm¬ 
steads, all asleep. And there in the east were the 
red flames—the sun—-the day. 

The horse pawed impatiently at the ground, 
eager to go on, but Peer held him back. He sat 
there gazing under the brim of his helmet at the 
sunrise, and felt a wave of strange feeling passing 
through his mind. 

It seemed to him impossible that he should ever 
reach a higher pitch of sheer delight in life. He 
was still young and strong; all the organs of his* 
body worked together in happy harmony. No 
cares to weigh upon his mind, no crushing re¬ 
sponsibilities; the future lying calm and clear in 
the light of day, free from dizzy dreams. His 
hunger after knowledge was appeased; he felt 
that what he had learned and seen and gathered 




The Great Hunger 


193 


was beginning to take living organic form in bis 
mind. 

Bnt then—what then? 

The great human type of which you dreamed—* 
have you succeeded in giving it life in yourself? 

You know what is common knowledge about the 
progress of humanity; its struggle towards higher 
forms, its gropings up by many ways toward the 
infinite which it calls God. 

You know something of the life of plants; the 
nest of a bird is a mystery before which you 
could kneel in worship. A rock shows you the 
marks of a glacier that scraped over it thousands 
of years ago, and looking on it you have a glimpse 
of the gigantic workings of the solar system. And 
on autumn evenings you look up at the stars, and 
the light and the death and the dizzy abysses of 
space above you send a solemn thrill through 
your soul. 

And this has become a part of yourself. The 
joy of life for you is to grasp all you can compass 
of the universe, and let it permeate your thought 
and sense on every side. 

But what then? Is this enough? Is it enough 
to rest thus in yourself? 

Have you as yet raised one stepping-stone upon 
which other men can climb and say: Now we 
can see farther than before? 

What is your inner being worth, unless it be 
mirrored in action? 

If the world one day came to be peopled with 




194 


The Great Hunger 


none but supermen—what profit in that, as long 
as they must die? 

What is yonr faith? 

Ah, this sense of exile, of religions homeless¬ 
ness ! How many times have you and Merle lain 
clasping each other’s hands, your thoughts wan¬ 
dering together hand in hand, seeking over earth 
or among the stars for some being to whom you 
might send up a prayer; no slavish begging cry 
for grace and favour, but a jubilant thanksgiving 
for the gift of life. 

But where was He? 

He is not. And yet—He is. 

But the ascetic on the cross is a God for the 
sick and aged. What of us others? When shall 
the modern man, strong, scientifically schooled, 
find a temple for the sacred music, the anthem of 
eternity in his soul? 

The sun rose up from behind a distant hill- 
crest, scattering gold over the million spires of the 
pine-forest. Peer bent forward, with red-gleam¬ 
ing dewdrops on his hand and his white sleeve, and 
patted the neck of his restless beast. 

It was two o’clock. The fires of morning were 
lit in the clouds and in all the waters over the 
earth. The dew in the meadows and the pearls on 
the wings of butterflies began to glisten. 

( ‘Now then, Bijou!—now for home!” 

And he dashed off down the grass-grown forest 
paths, the chestnut snorting as he galloped. 




Chapter VII 


“Hei, Merle; We’re going to have distinguished 
visitors—where in the world have you got to!” 
Peer hurried through the rooms with an open tele¬ 
gram in his hand, and at last came upon his wife 
in the nursery. “Oh, is it here you are?” 

“Yes—hut you shout so, I could hear you all 
through the house. Who is it that’s coming?” 

“Ferdinand Holm and Klaus Brock. Coming 
to the christening after all. Great Caesar!—what 
do you say to that, Merle?” 

Merle was pale, and her cheeks a little sunken. 
Two years more had passed, and she had her sec¬ 
ond child now on her knee—a little boy with big 
wondering eyes. 

“How fine for you, Peer!” she said, and went 
on undressing the child. 

“Yes; but isn’t it splendid of them to set off 
and come all that way, just because I asked them? 
By Jove, we must look sharp and get the place 
smartened up a bit. ’ ’ 

And sure enough the whole place was soon 
turned upside-down—cartloads of sand coming in 
for the garden walks and the courtyard, and paint¬ 
ers hard at work repainting the houses. And poor 
Merle knew very well that there would be serious 

195 




196 


The Great Hunger 


trouble if anything should be amiss with the en¬ 
tertainment indoors. 

At last came the hot August day when the flags 
were hoisted in honour of the expected guests. 
Once more the hum of mowing machines and hay- 
rakes came from the hill-slopes, and the air was 
so still that the columns of smoke from the chim¬ 
neys of the town rose straight into the air. Peer 
had risen early, to have a last look round, inspect¬ 
ing everything critically, from the summer dress 
Merle was to wear down to the horses in the stable, 
groomed till their coats shone again. Merle under¬ 
stood. He had been a fisher-boy beside the well- 
dressed son of the doctor, and something meaner 
yet in relation to the distinguished Holm family. 
And there was still so much of the boy in him that 
he wanted to show now at his very best. 

A crowd of inquisitive idlers had gathered down 
on the steamboat landing when the boat swung in 
and lay by the pier. The pair of bays in the 
Loreng carriage stood tossing their heads and 
twitching and stamping as the flies tormented 
them; but at last they got their passengers and 
were given their heads, setting off with a wild 
bound or two that scattered those who had pressed 
too near. But in the carriage they could see the 
two strangers and the engineer, all three laugh¬ 
ing and gesticulating, and talking all at once. And 
in a few moments they vanished in a cloud of dust, 
whirling away beside the calm waters of the fjord. 

Some way behind them a cart followed, driven 




The Great Hunger 


197 


by one of the stable-boys from Loreng, and loaded 
with big brass-bonnd leather trunks and a huge 
chest, apparently of wood, but evidently contain¬ 
ing something frightfully heavy. 

Merle had finished dressing, and stood looking 
at herself in the glass. The light summer dress 
was pretty, she thought, and the red bows at neck 
and waist sat to her satisfaction. Then came the 
roll of wheels outside, and she went out to receive 
her guests. 

‘‘Here they are,” cried Peer, jumping down. 
“This is Ferdinand Pasha, Governor-General of 
the new Kingdom of Sahara—and this is His 
Highness the Khedive’s chief pipe-cleaner and 
body-eunuch.” 

A tall, stooping man with white hair and a 
clean-shaven, dried-up face advanced towards 
Merle. It was Ferdinand Holm. “How do you 
do, Madam?” he said, giving her a dry, bony hand. 

“Why, this is quite a baronial seat you have 
here,” he added, looking round and settling his 
pince-nez. 

His companion was a round, plump gentleman, 
with a little black goatee beard and dark eyes that 
blinked continually. But his smile was full of 
mirth, and the grip of his hand felt true. So this 
was Klaus Brock. 

Peer led his two friends in through the rooms, 
showing them the view from the various windows. 
Klaus broke into a laugh at last, and turned to 
Merle: “He’s just the same as ever,” he said— 




198 


The Great Hunger 


“a little stouter, to be sure—it’s clear you’ve been 
treating him well, madam.” And he bowed and 
kissed her hand. 

There was hock and seltzer ready for them— 
this was Merle’s idea, as suitable for a hot day— 
and when the two visitors had each drunk off a 
couple of glasses, with an: “Ah! delicious!”, Peer 
came behind her, stroked her hand lightly and 
whispered, ‘ ‘ Thanks, Merle—first-rate idea of 
yours. ’ ’ 

“By the way,” exclaimed Ferdinand Holm sud¬ 
denly, “I must send off a telegram. May I use 
the telephone a moment?” 

“There he goes—can’t contain himself any 
longer!” burst out Klaus Brock with a laugh. 
“He’s had the telegraph wires going hard all the 
way across Europe—but you might let us get in¬ 
side and sit down before you begin again here.” 

“Come along,” said Peer. “Here’s the tele¬ 
phone. ’ ’ 

When the two had left the room, Klaus turned 
to Merle with a smile. “Well, well—so I’m really 
in the presence of Peer’s wife—his wife in flesh 
and blood. And this is what she looks like! That 
fellow always had all the luck.” And he took her 
hand again and kissed it. Merle drew it away and 
blushed. 

“You are not married, then, Mr. Brock?” 

“I? Well, yes and no. I did marry a Greek 
girl once, but she ran away. Just my luck.” And 




The Great Hunger 


199 


lie blinked bis eyes and sighed with an expression 
so comically sad that Merle burst out laughing. 

“And your friend, Ferdinand Holm?” she 
asked. 

“He, dear lady—be—why, saving your pres¬ 
ence, I have an idea there’s a select little harem 
attached to that palace of his.” 

Merle turned towards the window and shook her 
head with a smile. 

An hour later the visitors came down from their 
rooms after a wash and a change of clothes, and 
after a light luncheon Peer carried them off to 
show them round the place. He had added a num¬ 
ber of new buildings, and had broken new land. 
The farm had forty cows when he came, now he 
had over sixty. “Of course, all this is a mere 
nothing for fellows like you, who bring your har¬ 
vest home in railway trains,” he said. “But, you 
see, I have my home here.” And he waved his 
hand towards the house and the farmstead round. 

Later they drove over in the light trap to look 
at the workshop, and here he made no excuses for 
its being small. He showed off the little foundry 
as if it had been a world-famous seat of industry, 
and maintained his serious air while his compan¬ 
ions glanced sideways at him, trying hard not to 
smile. 

The workmen touched their caps respectfully, 
and sent curious glances at the strangers. 

“Quite a treat to see things on the Norwegian 




200 


The Great Hunger 


scale again,’’ Ferdinand Holm couldn’t resist say¬ 
ing at last. 

“Yes, isn’t it charming!” cried Peer, putting 
on an air of ingenuous delight. ‘ 4 This is just the 
size a foundry should be, if its owner is to have a 
good time and possess his soul in peace.” 

Ferdinand Holm and Brock exchanged glances. 
But next moment Peer led them through into a 
side-room, with tools and machinery evidently 
having no connection with the rest. 

“Now look out,” said Klaus. “This is the 
holy of holies, you’ll see. He’s hard at it working 
out some new devilry here, or I’m a Dutchman.” 

Peer drew aside a couple of tarpaulins, and 
showed them a mowing machine of the ordinary 
type, and beside it another, the model of a new 
type he had himself devised. 

“It’s not quite finished yet,” he said. “But 
I’ve solved the main problem. The old single 
knife-blade principle was clumsy; dragged, you 
know. But with two blades—a pair of shears, so 
to speak—it’ll work much quicker.” And he gave 
them a little lecture, showing how much simpler 
his mechanism was, and how much lighter the 
machine would be. 

‘‘ And there you are,’’ said Klaus. “It’s Colum¬ 
bus’s egg over again.” 

“The patent ought to be worth a million,” said 
Ferdinand Holm, slowly, looking out of the win¬ 
dow. 

“Of course the main thing is, to make the work 




The Great Hunger 


201 


easier and cheaper for the farmers,” said Peer, 
with a rather sly glance at Ferdinand. 

Dinner that evening was a festive meal. When 
the liquenr brandy went round, Klaus greeted it 
with enthusiasm. “Why, here’s an old friend, as 
I live! Real Lysholmer!—well, well; and so you’re 
still in the land of the living? You remember the 
days when we were boys together ? ” He lifted the 
little glass and watched the light play in the pale 
spirit. And the three old friends drank together, 
singing “The first full glass,” and then “The sec¬ 
ond little nip,” with the proper ceremonial observ¬ 
ances, just as they had done in the old days, at 
their student wine-parties. 

The talk went merrily, one good story calling up 
another. But Merle could not help noticing the 
steely gleam of Ferdinand Holm’s eyes, even when 
he laughed. 

The talk fell on new doings in Egypt, and as 
Peer heard more and more of these, it seemed to 
her that his look changed. His glance, too, seemed 
to have that glint of steel, there was something 
strange and absent in his face; was he feeling, per¬ 
haps, that wife and children were but a drag on a 
man, after all? He seemed like an old war-horse 
waking suddenly at the sound of trumpets. 

“There’s a nice little job waiting for you, by 
the way,” said Ferdinand Holm, lifting his glass 
to Peer. 

“Very kind of you, I’m sure. A sub-director¬ 
ship under you?” 




202 


The Great Hunger 


“You’re no good under any one. You belong 
on top.” Ferdinand illustrated his words with a 
downward and an upward pointing of the finger. 
“The harnessing of the Tigris and Euphrates will 
have to be taken in hand. It’s only a question of 
time. ’’ 

14 Thanks very much ! 9 9 said Peer, his eyes wide 
open now. 

“The plan’s simply lying waiting for the right 
man. It will be carried out, it may be next year, 
it may be in ten years—whenever the man comes 
along. I would think about it, if I were you.” 

All looked at Peer; Merle fastened her eyes on 
him, too. But he laughed. “Now, what on earth 
would be the satisfaction to me of binding in 
bands those two ancient and honourable riv¬ 
ers?” 

“Well, in the first place, it would mean an in¬ 
crease of many millions of bushels in the com pro¬ 
duction of the world. Wouldn’t you have any 
satisfaction in that?” 

“No,” said Peer, with a touch of scorn. 

“Or regular lines of communication over hun¬ 
dreds of thousands of square miles of the most 
fertile country on the globe?” 

“Don’t interest me,” said Peer. 

“Ah!” Ferdinand Holm lifted his glass to 
Merle. “Tell me, dear lady, how does it feel to 
be married to an anachronism?” 

“To—to what?” stammered Merle. 

;< Yes, your husband’s an anachronism. He 




The Great Hunger 


203 


might, if he chose, be one of the kings, the proph¬ 
ets, who lead the van in the fight for civilisation. 
But he will not; he despises his own powers, and 
one day he will start a revolution against himself. 
Mark my words. Your health, dear lady!” 

Merle laughed, and lifted her glass, but hesi¬ 
tatingly, and with a side-glance towards Peer. 

“Yes, your husband is no better now than an 
egoist, a collector of happy days.” 

“Well, and is that so very wicked!” 

“He sits ravelling out his life into a multitude 
of golden threads,” went on Ferdinand with a 
bow, his steely eyes trying to look gentle. 

“But what is wrong in that?” said the young 
wife stoutly. 

“It is wrong. It is wasting his immortal soul. 
A man has no right to ravel out his life, even 
though the threads are of gold. A man’s days of 
personal happiness are forgotten—his work en¬ 
dures. And your husband in particular—why the 
deuce should he be so happy? The world-evolu¬ 
tion uses us inexorably, either for light or for fuel. 
And Peer—your husband, dear lady—is too good 
for fuel.” 

Merle glanced again at her husband. Peer 
laughed, but then suddenly compressed his lips 
and looked down at his plate. 

Then the nurse came in with little Louise, to 
say good-night, and the child was handed round 
from one to the other. But when the little fair- 
haired girl came to Ferdinand Holm, he seemed 




204 


The Great Hunger 


loth to touch her, and Merle read his glance at 
Peer as meaning: 4 ‘Here is another of the bonds 
you’ve tied yourself up with.” 

“Excuse me,” he said suddenly, looking at his 
watch, “I’m afraid I must ask for the use of the 
telephone again. Pardon me, Fru Holm.” And 
he rose and left the room. Klaus looked at the 
others and shook his head. “That man would 
simply expire if he couldn’t send a telegram once 
an hour,” he said with a laugh. 

Coffee was served out on the balcony, and the 
men sat and smoked. It was a dusky twilight of 
early autumn; the hills were dark blue now and 
distant; there was a scent of hay and garden flow¬ 
ers. After a while Merle rose and said good¬ 
night. And in her thoughts, when she found her¬ 
self alone in her bedroom, she hardly knew 
whether to be displeased or not. These strange 
men were drawing Peer far away from all that 
had been his chief delight since she had known 
him. But it was interesting to see how different 
his manner was towards the two friends. Klaus 
Brock he could jest and laugh with, but with Fer¬ 
dinand Holm he seemed always on his guard, ready 
to assert himself, and whenever he contradicted 
him it was always with a certain deference. 

The great yellow disc of the moon came up over 
the hills in the east, drawing a broad pillar of 
gold across the dark water. And the three com¬ 
rades on the balcony sat watching it for a while in 
silence. 




The Great Hunger 


2 05 


“So you’re really going to go on idling here?” 
asked Ferdinand at last, sipping his liqueur. 

“Is it me you mean?” asked Peer, bending 
slightly forward. 

“Well, I gather you’re going round here simply 
being happy from morning to night. I call that 
idling. ’ ’ 

“Thanks.” 

“Of course, you’re very unhappy in reality. 
Everyone is, as long as he’s neglecting his powers 
and aptitudes.” 

“Very many thanks,” said Peer, with a laugh. 
Klaus sat up in his chair, a little anxious as to 
what was coming. 

Ferdinand was still looking out over the lake. 
“You seem to despise your own trade—as en¬ 
gineer?” 

“Yes,” said Peer. 

“And why?” 

“Why, I feel the lack of some touch of beauty 
in our ceaseless craving to create something new, 
something new, always something new. More 
gold, more speed, more food—are these things not 
all we are driving at ? ” 

“My dear fellow, gold means freedom. And 
food means life. And speed carries us over the 
dead moments. Double the possibilities of life for 
men, and you double their numbers.” 

“And what good will it do to double their num¬ 
bers? Two thousand million machine-made souls 
—is that what you want?” 




206 


The Great Hunger 


“But hang it all, man,” put in Klaus Brock 
eagerly, “think of our dear Norway at least. 
Surely you don’t think it would be a misfortune if 
our population increased so far that the world 
could recognise our existence.” 

“I do,” said Peer, looking away over the lake. 

“Ah, you’re a fanatic for the small in size and 
in numbers.” 

“I am loth to see all Norway polluted with 
factories and proletariat armies. Why the devil 
can’t we be left in peace?” 

“The steel will not have it,” said Ferdinand 
Holm, as if speaking to the pillar of moonlight on 
the water. 

“Wliat? Who did you say?” Peer looked at 
him with wide eyes. 

Ferdinand went on undisturbed: “The steel will 
not have peace. And the fire will not. And Pro¬ 
metheus will not. The human spirit has still ioo 
many steps to climb before it reaches the top. 
Peace? No, my friend—there are powers outside 
you and me that determine these things.” 

Peer smiled, and lit a new cigar. Ferdinand 
Holm leaned back in his chair and went on, ad¬ 
dressing himself apparently to the moon. ‘ ‘ Tigris 
and Euphrates—Indus and Ganges—and all the 
rest of this planet—regulate and cultivate the 
whole, and what is it after all? It’s only a ques¬ 
tion of a few years. It is only a humble begin¬ 
ning. In a couple of centuries or so there will be 
nothing left to occupy us any more on this little 




The Great Hunger 


207 


globe of ours. And then we’ll bave to set about 
colonising other worlds.” 

There was silence for a moment. Then Peer 
spoke. 

“And what do we gain by it all?” he asked. 

“Gain? Do you imagine there will ever be any 
‘thus far and no farther’ for the spirit of man? 
Half a million years hence, all the solar systems 
we know of now will be regulated and ordered by 
the human spirit. There will be difficulties, of 
course. Interplanetary wars will arise, planetary 
patriotism, groups of planetary powers in alli¬ 
ances and coalitions against other groups. Little 
worlds will be subjugated by the bigger ones, and 
so on. Is there anything in all this to grow dizzy 
over? Great heavens—can anyone doubt that 
man must go on conquering and to conquer for 
millions of years to come? The world-will goes 
its way. We cannot resist. Nobody asks whether 
we are happy. The will that works towards the 
infinite asks only whom it can use for its ends, and 
who is useless. Vwla tout” 

“And when I die,” asked Peer—“what then?” 

“You! Are you still going about feeling your 
own pulse and wanting to live for ever? My dear 
fellow, you don’t exist. There is just one person 
on our side—the world-will. And that includes 
us all. That’s what I mean by ‘we.’ And we are 
working towards the day when we can make God 
respect us in good earnest. The spirit of man will 
hold a Day of Judgment, and settle accounts with 





208 


The Great Hunger 


Olympus—with the riddle, the almighty power be¬ 
yond. It will be a great reckoning. And mark 
my words—that is the one single religious idea 
that lives and works in each and every one of us 
—the thing that makes us hold up our heads and 
walk upright, forgetting that we are slaves and 
things that die.” 

Suddenly he looked at his watch. ‘‘Excuse me 
a moment. If the telegraph office is open . . .” 
and he rose and went in. 

When he returned, Klaus and Peer were talk¬ 
ing of the home of their boyhood and their early 
days together. 

“Remember that time we went shark-fishing?” 
asked Klaus. 

“Oh yes—that shark. Let me see—you were a 
hero* weren’t you, and beat it to death with your 
bare fists—wasn’t that it?” And then “Cut the 
line, cut the line, and row for your lives,” he 
mimicked, and burst out laughing. 

“Oh, shut up now and don’t be so witty,” said 
Klaus. “But tell me, have you ever been back 
there since you came home?” 

Peer told him that he had been to the village 
last year. His old foster-parents were dead, and 
Peter Ronningen too; but Martin Bruvold was 
there still, living in a tiny cottage with eight chil¬ 
dren. 

“Poor devil!” said Klaus. 

Ferdinand Holm had sat down again, and now 
he nodded towards the moon. “An old chum 




The Great Hunger 


209 


of yours? Well, why don’t we send hi m a thou¬ 
sand crowns?” 

There was a little pause. “I hope you’ll let me 
join you,” went on Ferdinand, taking a note for 
five hundred crowns from his waistcoat pocket. 
“You don’t mind, do you?” 

Peer glanced at him and took the note. “I’m 
delighted for poor old Martin’s sake,” he said, 
putting the note in his waistcoat pocket. ‘‘ That’ll 
make fifteen hundred for him.” 

Klaus Brock looked from one to the other and 
smiled a little. The talk turned on other things 
for a while, and then he asked: 

“By the way, Peer, have you seen that adver¬ 
tisement of the British Carbide Company’s?” 

“No, what about?” 

11 They want tenders for the damming and har¬ 
nessing of the Besna Biver, with its lake system 
and falls. That should be something in your line.” 

“No,” said Ferdinand sharply. “I told you 
before—that job’s too small for him. Peer’s 
going to the Euphrates.” 

“What would it amount to, roughly?” said Peer, 
addressing no one in particular. 

“As far as I could make out, it should be a mat¬ 
ter of a couple of million crowns or thereabout,” 
said Klaus. 

“That’s not a thing for Peer,” said Ferdinand, 
rising and lifting his hand to hide a yawn. ‘ ‘ Leave 
trifles like that to the trifling souls. Good-night, 
gentlemen. ’ ’ 





210 


The Great Hunger 


A couple of hours later, when all was silent 
throughout the house, Peer was still up, wander¬ 
ing to and fro in soft felt slippers in the great 
hall. Now and again he would stop, and look out 
of the window. Why could he not sleep? The 
moon was paling, the day beginning to dawn. 




Chapter VIII 


The next morning Merle was alone in tlie pantry 
when she heard steps behind her, and turned her 
head. It was Klaus Brock. 

4 ‘Good-morning, madam—ah! so this is what 
you look like in morning dress. Why, morning 
neglige might have been invented for you, if I may 
say so. You might be a Ghirlandajo. Or no, bet¬ 
ter still, Aspasia herself.” 

“You are up early,” said Merle drily. 

“Am I? What about Ferdinand Holm then? 
He has been up since sunrise, sitting over his let¬ 
ters and accounts. Anything I can help you with? 
May I move that cheese for you?—Well, well! you 
are strong. But there, I’m always de trop where 
women are concerned.” 

“Always de trop?” repeated Merle, watching 
him through her long lashes. 

“Yes—my first and only love—do you know who 
she was ? ’ ’ 

“No, indeed. How should I?” 

“Well, it was Louise—Peer’s little sister. I 
wish you could have known her . 9 ’ 

“And since then?” Merle let her eyes rest on 
this flourishing gentleman, who looked as if he 
could never have had a trouble in the world. 


211 




212 


The Great Hunger 


“Since then, dear lady?—since then? Let me 
see. Why, at this moment I really can’t remember 
ever having met any other woman except ...” 

“Except . . . ?” 

“Except yourself, madam.” And he bowed. 

“You are too kind!” 

“And, that being so, don’t you think it’s your 
plain duty, as a hospitable hostess, to grant 
me . . .” 

“Grant you—what? A piece of cheese?” 

“Why, no, thanks. Something better. Some¬ 
thing much better than that. ’’ 

“What, then?” 

“A kiss. I might as well have it now.” As he 
took a step nearer, she looked laughingly round 
for a way of escape, but he was between her and 
the door. 

“Well,” said Merle, “but you must do some¬ 
thing to make yourself useful first. Suppose you 
ran up that step-ladder for me.” 

“Delighted. Why, this is great fun!” The 
slight wooden ladder creaked under the weight of 
his solid form as he climbed. “How high am I 
to go?” 

“To reach the top shelf—that’s it. Now, you 
see that big brown jar? Careful—it’s cranber¬ 
ries.” 

“Splendid—I do believe we’re to have cran¬ 
berry preserve at dinner. ’ ’ By standing on tiptoe 
he managed to reach and lift the heavy jar, and 




The Great Hunger 


213 


stood holding it, his face flushed with his exer¬ 
tions. 

1 ' And now, little lady ?’ 9 

“ Jnst stay there a moment and hold it carefully; 
I have to fetch something.” And she hurried out. 

Klaus stood at the top of the ladder, holding the 
heavy jar. He looked round. What was he to do 
with it? He waited for Merle to return—but she 
did not appear. Someone was playing the piano 
in the next room. Should he call for help? He 
waited on, getting redder and redder in the face. 
And still no Merle came. 

With another mighty effort he set the Jar hack 
in its place, and then climbed down the ladder and 
walked into the drawing-room, very red and out 
of breath. In the doorway he stopped short and 
stared. 

“What—well, I’ll- And she’s sitting here 

playing the piano ! 9 9 

“Yes. Aren’t you fond of music, Herr Brock?” 

“I’ll pay you out for this,” he said, shaking a 
finger at her. “Just you wait and see, little lady, 
if I don’t pay you out, with interest!” And he 
turned and went upstairs, chuckling as he went. 

Peer was sitting at the writing-table in his study 
when Klaus came in. “I’m just sealing up the 
letter with the money for Martin Bruvold,” he 
said, setting the taper to a stick of sealing wax. 
“I’ve signed it: 'From the shark fishers.’ ” 

“Yes, it was a capital idea of Ferdinand’s. 




214 


The Great Hunger 


What d’you think the poor old fellow’ll say when 
he opens it and the big notes tumble out!” 

“I’d like to see his face,” said Peer, as he wrote 
the address on the envelope. 

Klans dropped into a leather armchair and 
leaned back comfortably. “I’ve been downstairs 
flirting a little with yonr wife,” he said. “Your 
wife’s a wonder, Peer.” 

Peer looked at him, and thought of the old days 
when the heavy-built, clumsy doctor’s son had run 
about after the servant-girls in the town. He had 
still something of his old lurching walk, but in¬ 
tercourse with the ladies of many lands had pol¬ 
ished him and given lightness and ease to his man¬ 
ner. 

“What was I going to say?” Klaus went on. 
“Oh yes—our friend Ferdinand’s a fine fellow, 
isn’t he?” 

“Yes, indeed.” 

“I felt yesterday exactly as I used to feel when 
we three were together in the old days. When I 
listen to his talk I can’t help agreeing with him— 
and then you begin to speak, and what you say, too, 
seems to be just what I’ve been thinking in my in¬ 
most soul. Do you think I’ve become shallow, 
Peer?” 

“Well, your steam ploughs look after them¬ 
selves, I suppose, and the ladies of your harem 
don’t trouble you overmuch. Do you read at all ? ” 

“Best not say too much about that,” said Klaus 





The Great Hunger 


215 


with a sigh, and it suddenly struck Peer that his 
friend’s face had grown older and more worn. 

‘ ‘ No, ’’ said Klaus again. ‘ ‘ Better not say much 
about that. But tell me, old fellow—you mustn’t 
mind my asking—has Ferdinand ever spoken to 
you as his brother ... or ... ” 

Peer flushed hotly. “No,” he said after a pause. 
“No?” 

“I owe more to him than to anybody in the 
world. But whether he regards me as a kinsman 
or simply as an object for his kindness to wreak 
itself on is a matter he’s always left quite vague.” 

“It’s just like him. He’s a queer fellow. But 
there’s another thing. ...” 

“Well?” said Peer, looking up. 

“It’s—er—again it’s rather a delicate matter to 
touch on. I know, of course, that you’re in the 
enviable position of having your fortune invested 
in the best joint-stock company in the world-” 

“Yes; and so are you.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, mine’s a trifle compared with yours. Have 
you still the whole of your money in Ferdinand’s 
company?” 

“Yes. I’ve been thinking of selling a few shares, 
by the way. As you may suppose, I’ve been spend¬ 
ing a good deal just lately—more than my in¬ 
come.” 

“You mustn’t sell just now, Peer. They’re—I 
daresay you’ve seen that they’re down—below 
par, in fact.” 

“What—below par! No, I had no idea of that.” 




216 


The Great Hunger 


‘ ‘Oh, only for the time being, of course. Just a 
temporary drop. There’s sure to he another run 
on them soon, and they’ll go up again. But the 
Khedive has the controlling interest, you know, 
and he’s rather a ticklish customer. Ferdinand 
is all for extension—wants to keep on buying up 
new land—new desert, that is. Irrigation there’s 
just a question of power—that’s how he looks at 
it. And of course the bigger the scale of the work 
the cheaper the power will work out. But the Khe¬ 
dive’s holding back. It may be just a temporary 
whim—may be all right again to-morrow. But 
you never know. And if you think Ferdinand’s 
the man to give in to a cranky Khedive, you’re 
much mistaken. His idea now is to raise all the 
capital he can lay hands on, and buy him out I 
What do you say to that 1 Buy the Khedive clean 
out of the company. It’s a large order. And if 
I were you, old man, as soon as the shares go up 
again a bit, I’d sell out some of my holding, and 
put the money into something at home here. After 
all, there must be plenty of quite useful things to 
be had here.” 

Peer frowned, and sat for a while looking 
straight before him. “No,” he said at last. “As 
things stand between Ferdinand Holm and me— 
well, if either of us goes back on the other, it’s 
not going to be me.” 

“Ah, in that case—I beg your pardon,” said 
Klaus, and he rose and departed. 




The Great Hunger 


217 


The christening was a great occasion, with a 
houseful of guests, and a great deal of speech- 
making. The host was the youngest and gayest 
of the party. The birth of his son should be cele¬ 
brated in true Ethiopian fashion, he declared— 
with bonfires and boating parties. 

The moon was hidden that evening behind thick 
dark clouds, but the boats full of guests glided 
over the black water to the accompaniment of 
music and laughter. The young madcap of a law¬ 
yer was there, again sitting on the lap of someone 
else’s wife, and playing a concertina, till people 
in the farms on shore opened their windows and 
put their heads out to listen. 

Later on the bonfires blazed up all along the 
lake shore and shone like great flaming suns in the 
water below. The guests lay on the grass in little 
groups round picnic suppers, and here and there 
a couple wandered by themselves, talking in whis¬ 
pers. 

Merle and Peer stood together for a moment be¬ 
side one of the bonfires. Their faces and figures 
were lit by the red glow; they looked at each other 
and exchanged a smile. He took her hand and led 
her outside the circle of light from the fire, and 
pointed over to their home, with all its windows 
glowing against the dark. ^ 

“ Suppose this should be the last party we give, 
Merle.” 

‘ 4 Peer, what makes you say that?” 

i ‘Oh, nothing—only I have a sort of feeling, as 




218 


The Great Hunger 


if something had just ended and something new 
was to begin. I feel like it, somehow. But I 
wanted to thank you, too, for all the happy times 
we’ve had.” 

i ‘But Peer—what-” She got no farther, for 

Peer had already left her and joined a group of 
guests, where he was soon as gay as the rest. 

Then came the day when the two visitors were 
to leave. Their birthday gift to the young gentle¬ 
man so lately christened Lorentz Uthoug stood in 
the drawing-room; it was a bust in red granite, 
the height of a man, of the Sun-god Be Hormachis, 
brought with them by the godfathers from Alex¬ 
andria. And now it sat in the drawing-room be¬ 
tween palms in pots, pressing its elbows against 
its sides and gazing with great dead eyes out into 
endless space. 

Peer stood on the quay waving farewell to his 
old comrades as the steamer ploughed through the 
water, drawing after it a fan-shaped trail of little 
waves. 

And when he came home, he walked about the 
place, looking at farms and woods, at Merle and 
the children, with eyes that seemed to her strange 
and new. 

Next night he stayed up once more alone, pacing 
to and fro in the great hall, and looking out of the 
windows into the dark. 

Was he ravelling out his life into golden threads 
that vanished and were forgotten? 




The Great Hunger 


219 


Was he content to be fuel instead of light? 

What was he seeking ? Happiness ? And beyond 
it? As a boy he had called it the anthem, the 
universal hymn. What was it now? God? But 
he would hardly find Him in idleness. 

You have drawn such nourishment as you could 
from joy in your home, from your marriage, your 
fatherhood, nature, and the feliowmen around you 
here. There are unused faculties in you that hun¬ 
ger for exercise; that long to be set free to work, 
to strive, to act. 

You should take up the barrage on the Besna, 
Peer. But could you get the contract? If you 
once buckle-to in earnest, no one is likely to beat 
you—you’ll get it, sure enough. But do you really 
want it? 

Are you not working away at a mowing-machine 
as it is ? Better own up that you can’t get on with¬ 
out your old craft, after all—that you must for 
ever be messing and meddling with steel and fire. 
You can’t help yourself. 

All the things your eyes have been fixed on in 
these last years have been only golden visions in 
a mist. The steel has its own will. The steel is 
beginning to wake in you—singing—singing—bent 
on pressing onward. You have no choice. 

The world-will goes on its way. Go with ii or 
be cast overboard as useless. 

And still Peer walked up and down, up aiid 
down. 




220 


The Great Hunger 


Next morning he set off for the capital. Merle 
patched the carriage as it drove away, and thought 
to herself: “He was right. Something new is 
beginning.” 




Chapter IX 


Theke came a card from Peer, with a brief mes¬ 
sage: “Off to inspect the ground.’’ A fortnight 
later he came home, loaded with maps and plans. 
“Of course I’m late for the fair, as usual,” he 
said. ‘ ‘ But wait a bit. ’ ’ 

He locked himself into his room. At last Merle 
knew what it was like to have him at work. She 
could hear him in the mornings, walking up and 
down and whistling. Then silence—he would be 
standing over his table, busy with notes and fig¬ 
ures. Then steps again. Now he was singing— 
and this was a novelty to himself. It was as if 
he carried in him a store of happiness, a treasure 
laid by of love, and the beauty of nature, and 
happy hours, and now it found its way out in song. 
Why should he not sing over the plans for a great 
barrage I Mathematics are dry work enough, but 
at times they can be as living visions, soaring up 
into the light. Peer sang louder. Then silence 
again. Merle never knew now when he stopped 
work and came to bed. She would fall asleep to 
the sound of his singing in his own room, and when 
she woke he would already be tramping up and 
down again in there; and to her his steps seemed 
like the imperious tread of a great commander. 


221 




222 


The Great Hunger 


He was alight with new visions, new themes, and 
his voice had a lordly ring. Merle looked at him 
through half-closed eyes with a lingering glance. 
Once more he was new to her: she had never seen 
him like this. 

At last the work was finished, and he sent in his 
tender. And now he was more restless than ever. 
For a week he waited for an answer, tramping in 
and out of the place, going off for rides on Bijou, 
and coming hack with his horse dripping with 
sweat. An impatient man cannot possibly ride at 
any pace but a gallop. The days passed; Peer 
was sleepless, and ate nothing. More days passed. 
At last he came bursting into the nursery one 
morning: 44 Trunk call, Merle; summons to a 
meeting of the Company Directors. Quick’s the 
word. Come and help me pack—sharp.’ 9 And in 
no time he was off again to the city. 

Now it was Merle’s turn to walk up and down 
in suspense. It mattered little to her in itself 
whether he got the work or not, but she was keenly 
anxious that he should win. 

A couple of days later a telegram came: 44 Hur¬ 
rah, wife!” And Merle danced round the room, 
waving the telegram above her head. 

The next day he was back home again and 
tramping up and down the room. 44 What do you 
think your father will say to it, Merle—ha! ’ ’ 

4 4 Father ? Say to what ? ’ ’ 

4 4 When I ask him to be my surety for a couple 
of hundred thousand crowns ? ’ ’ 





The Great Hunger 


223 


“Is father to be in it, too?” Merle looked at 
him open-eyed. 

“Oh, if he doesn’t want to, we’ll let him off. 
But at any rate I’ll ask him first. Goodbye.” 
And Peer drove off into town. 

In Lorentz Uthoug’s big house you had to pass 
through the hardware shop to get to his office, 
which lay behind. Peer knocked at the door, with 
a portfolio under his arm. Herr Uthoug had just 
lit the gas, and was on the point of sitting down 
at his American roll-top desk, when Peer entered. 
The grey-bearded head with the close thick hair 
turned towards him, darkened by the shadow from 
the green shade of the burner. 

“You, is it?” said he. “Sit down. You’ve 
been to Christiania, I hear. And what are you 
busy with now?” 

They sat down opposite each other. Peer ex¬ 
plained, calmly and with confidence. 

“And what does the thing amount to?” asked 
Uthoug, his face coming out of the shadow and 
looking at Peer in the full light. 

“Two million four hundred thousand.” 

The old man laid his hairy hands on the desk 
and rose to his feet, staring at the other and 
breathing deeply. The sum half-stunned him. Be¬ 
side it he himself and his work seemed like dust 
in the balance. Where were all his plans and 
achievements now, his greatness, his position, his 
authority in the town? Compared with amounts 




224 


The Great Hunger 


like this, what were the paltry sums he had been 
used to handle? 

“I—I didn’t quite catch-” he stammered. 

“Did you say two millions V 9 

“Yes. I daresay it seems a trifle to you,” said 
Peer. “Indeed, I’ve handled contracts myself 
that ran to fifty million francs. ’ ’ 

“What? How much did you say?” Uthoug 
began to move restlessly about the room. He 
clutched his hair, and gazed at Peer as if doubting 
whether he was quite sober. 

At the same time he felt it would never do to let 
himself be so easily thrown off his balance. He 
tried to pull himself together. 

“And what do you make out of it?” he asked. 

“A couple of hundred thousand, I hope.” 

“Oh!” A profit on this scale again rather 
startled the old man. No, he was nothing; he 
never had been anything in this world! 

“How do you know that you will make so 
much?” 

“I’ve calculated it all out.” 

“But if—but how can you be sure of it? Sup¬ 
pose you’ve got your figures wrong?” His head 
was thrust forward again into the full light. 

“I’m in the habit of getting my figures right,” 
said Peer. 

Wlien he broached the question of security, the 
old man was in the act of moving away from him 
across the room. But he stopped short, and looked 
back over his shoulder. 




The Great Hunger 


22 5 


“What? Security? You want me to stand se¬ 
curity for two million crowns ?” 

“No; the Company asks for a guarantee for 
four hundred thousand.’’ 

After a pause the old man said: “I see. Yes, 
I see. But—but I’m not worth as much as that 
altogether. ’ ’ 

“I can put in three hundred thousand of the 
four myself, in shares. And then, of course, T 
have the Loreng property, and the works. But 
put it at a round figure—will you guarantee a 
hundred thousand ? ’ ’ 

There was another pause, and then the reply 
came from the far end of the room to which 
Uthoug had drifted: “Even that’s a big sum.” 

“Of course if you would rather not, I could 
make other arrangements, My two friends, who 
have just been here——” He rose and began to 
gather up his papers. 

“No, no; you mustn’t be in such a hurry. Why, 
you come down on a man like an avalanche. You 
must give me time to think it over—till to-morrow 
at least. And the papers—at any rate, I must have 
a look at them.” 

Uthoug passed a restless and troubled night. 
The solid ground seemed to have failed him; his 
mind could find no firm foothold. His son-in-law 
must be a great man—he should be the last to 
doubt it. But a hundred thousand—to be ven¬ 
tured, not in landed property, or a big trade deal, 
but on the success of a piece of construction work. 






226 


The Great Hunger 


This was something new. It seemed fantastic— 
suited to the great world outside perhaps, or the 
future. Had he courage enough to stand in? Who 
could tell what accidents, what disasters might not 
happen? No! He shook his head. He could not. 
He dared not. But—the thing tempted him. He 
had always wanted to he something more than a 
whale among the minnows. Should he risk it? 
Should he not? It meant staking his whole for¬ 
tune, his position, everything, upon the outcome 
of a piece of engineering that he understood noth¬ 
ing whatever about. It was sheer speculation; it 
was gambling. No, he must say: No. Then he 
was only a whale among the minnows, after all. 
No, he must say: Yes. Good God! He clenched 
his hands together; they were clammy with sweat, 
and his brain was in a whirl. It was a trial, a 
temptation. He felt an impulse to pray. But 
what good could that do—since he had himself 
abolished God. 

Next day Merle and Peer were rung up by tele¬ 
phone and asked to come in to dinner with the old 
folks. 

But when they were all sitting at table, they 
found it impossible to keep the conversation going. 
Everyone seemed shy of beginning on the subject 
they were all thinking about. The old man’s face 
was grey with want of sleep; his wife looked from 
one to the other through her spectacles. Peer was 
calm and smiling. 

At last, when the claret came round, Fru Uthoug 




The Great Hunger 


227 


lifted her glass and drank to Peer. ‘ i Good for¬ 
tune!” she said. “We won’t he the ones to stand 
in your way. Since you think it is all right, of 
course it is. And we all hope it will turn out well 
for you, Peer.” 

Merle looked at her parents; she had sat 
through the meal anxious and troubled, and now 
the tears rose into her eyes. 

“Thanks,” said Peer, lifting his glass and 
drinking to his host and hostess. “Thanks,” he 
repeated, bowing to old Uthoug. The matter was 
arranged. Evidently the two old folks had talked 
it over together and come to an agreement. 

It was settled, but all four felt as if the solid 
ground were rocking a little under their feet. All 
their future, their fate, seemed staked upon a 
throw. 

A couple of days later, a day of mild October 
sunshine, Peer happened to go into the town, and, 
catching sight of his mother-in-law at the window, 
he went off and bought some flowers, and took 
them up to her. 

She was sitting looking out at the yellow sky in 
the west, and she hardly turned her head as she 
took the flowers. “Thanks, Peer,” she said, and 
continued gazing out at the sky. 

“What are you thinking of, dear mother?” 
asked Peer. 

“All! it isn’t a good thing always to tell our 
thoughts, ’ ’ she said, and she turned her spectacled 
eyes so as to look out over the lake. 




228 


The Great Hunger 


“I hope it was something pleasant?” 

“I was thinking of you, Peer. Of you and 
Merle. ’ 1 

‘ 6 It is good of you to think of us / 7 

“ You see, Peer, there is trouble coming for you. 
A great deal of trouble/’ She nodded her head 
towards the yellow sky in the west. 

“Trouble? Why? Why should trouble come to 
us?” 

“Because you are happy, Peer.” 

“What? Because I am-?” 

“Because all things blossom and flourish about 
you. Be sure that there are unseen powers enough 
that grudge you your happiness.” 

Peer smiled. “You think so?” he asked. 

“I know it,” she answered with a sigh, gazing 
out into the distance. “You have made enemies 
of late amongst all those envious shadows that 
none can see. But they are all around us. I see 
them every day; I have learned to know them, in 
all these years. I have fought with them. And 
it is well for Merle that she has learned to sing 
in a house so full of shadows. God grant she may 
be able to sing them away from you too.” 

WThen Peer left the house he felt as if little shud¬ 
ders of cold were passing down his back. * ‘ Pooh! ’ 9 
he exclaimed as he reached the street. “She is 
not right in her head.” And he hurried to his 
carriole and drove off home. 

‘‘ Old Rode will be pleased, anyhow,” he thought. 
“He’ll be his own master in the workshop now— 




The Great Hunger 


229 


the dream of his life. Well, everyone for himself. 
And the bailiff will have things all his own way at 
Loreng for a year or two. Well, well! Come np, 
Brownie I” 




Chapter X 


“Peer, you’re surely not going away just now? 
Oh, Peer, you mustn’t You won’t leave me alone, 
Peer!” 

“Merle, dear, now do be sensible. No, no—do 
let go, dear.” He tried to disengage her hands 
that were clasped behind his neck. 

“Peer, you have never been like this before, 
Don’t you care for me any more—or the chil¬ 
dren?” 

“Merle, dearest, you don’t imagine that I like 
going. But you surely don’t want me to have 
another big breach this year. It would be sheer 
ruin, I do assure you. Come, come now; let me 
go.” 

But she held him fast. “And what happens to 
those dams up there is more to you now than what 
becomes of me!” 

“You will be all right, dear. The doctor and 
the nurse have promised to be on the spot the 
moment you send word. And you managed so well 
before. ... I simply cannot stay now, Merle. 
There’s too much at stake. There, there, good¬ 
bye ! Be sure you telegraph-” He kissed her 

over the eyes, put her gently down into a chair, 
220 




The Great Hunger 


281 


and hurried ont of the room, feeling her terrified 
glance follow him as he went. 

The April snn had cleared away the snow from 
the lowlands, bnt when Peer stepped out of the 
train np in Espedal he found himself back in win¬ 
ter—farms and fields still covered, and ridges and 
peaks deep in white dazzling snow. And soon he 
was sitting wrapped in his furs, driving a miser¬ 
able dun pony up a side-valley that led out on to 
the uplands. 

The road was a narrow track through the snow, 
yellow with horse-dung, and a mass of holes and 
ruts, worn by his own teams that had hauled their 
heavy loads of cement this way all through that 
winter and the last, up to the plateau and across 
the frozen lakes to Besna. 

The steel will on. The steel cares nothing for 
human beings. Merle must come through it alone. 

"When a healthy, happy man is hampered and 
thwarted in a great work by annoyances and dis¬ 
asters, he behaves like an Arab horse on a heavy 
march. At first it moves at a brisk trot, uphill 
and downhill, and it goes faster and faster as its 
strength begins to flag. And when at last it is 
thoroughly out of breath and ready to drop, it 
breaks into an easy gallop. 

This was not the work he had once dreamed of 
finding. Now, as before, his hunger for eternal 
things seemed ever at the side of his accomplish¬ 
ment, asking continually: Whither? Why? and 
What then? 




232 


The Great Hunger 


But by degrees the difficulties bad multiplied and 
mounted, till at last his whole mind was taken up 
by the one thought—to put it through. Good or 
bad in itself—he must make a success of it. He 
had undertaken it, and he must see it through. 
He must not be beaten. 

And so he fought on. It was merely a trial of 
strength; a fight with material difficulties. Aye, 
but was that all it was? Were there not times 
when he felt himself struggling with something 
greater, something worse? A new motive force 
seemed to have come into his life—misfortune. A 
power outside his own will had begun to play 
tricks with him. 

Your calculations may be sound, correct in every 
detail, and yet things may go altogether wrong. 

Who could include in his calculations the chance 
that a perfectly sober engineer will get drunk one 
day and give orders so crazy that it costs tens of 
thousands to repair the damage ? Who could fore¬ 
see that against all probability a big vein of water 
would be tapped in tunnelling, and would burst 
out, flooding the workings and overwhelming the 
workmen—so that the next day a train of un¬ 
painted deal coffins goes winding out over the 
frozen lakes ? 

More than once there had been remarks and 
questions in the newspapers: “Another disaster 
at the Besna Falls. Who is to blame ?” 

It was because he himself was away on a busi¬ 
ness journey and Falkman had neglected to take 




The Great Hunger 


233 


elementary precautions that the big rock-fall oc¬ 
curred in the tunnel, killing four men, and destroy¬ 
ing the new Belgian rock-drill, that had cost a good 
hundred thousand, before it had begun to work. 
This sort of thing was not faulty calculation—it 
was malicious fate. 

“Come up, boy! We must get there to-night. 
The flood mustn’t have a chance this year to lay 
the blame on me because I wasn’t on the spot.” 

And then, to cap the other misfortunes, his chief 
contractor for material had gone bankrupt, and 
now prices had risen far above the rates he had 
allowed for—adding fresh thousands to the extra 
expenditure. 

But he would put the thing through, even if he 
lost money by it. His envious rivals who had 
lately begun to run down his projects in the tech¬ 
nical papers—he would make them look foolish 
yet. 

And then? 

Well, it may be that the Promethean spirit is 
preparing a settling day for the universe some¬ 
where out in infinity. But what concern is that of 
mine? What about my own immortal soul? 

Silence—push on, push on. There may be a 
snowstorm any minute. Come up—get along, you 
scarecrow. 

The dun struggles on to the end of a twelve- 
mile stage, and then the valley ends and the full 
blast from the plateau meets them. Here lies the 
posting station, the last farm in the valley. He 




234 


The Great Hunger 


swings into the yard and is soon sitting in the 
room over a cup of coffee and a pipe. 

Merle? How are things with Merle now? 

Ah! here comes his own horse, the big black 
stallion from Gudbrandsdal. This beast’s trot is 
a different thing from the poor dun’s—the sleigh 
flies up to the door. And in a moment Peer is sit¬ 
ting in it again in his furs. 

Ah! what a relief to have a fresh horse, and one 
that makes light of the load behind him. Away 
he goes at a brisk trot, with lifted head and bells 
jingling, over the frozen lakes. Here and there 
on the hillslopes a grey hut or two show out— 
sseters, which have lain there unchanged for per¬ 
haps a couple of thousand years. But a new time 
is coming. The s^eter-horns will be heard no 
longer, and the song of the turbines will rise in 
their place. 

An icy wind is blowing; the horse throws up its 
head and snorts. Big snowflakes come driving on 
the wind, and soon a regular snowstorm is raging, 
lashing the traveller’s face till he gasps. First the 
horse’s mane and tail grow white with snow, then 
its whole body. The drifts grow bigger, the black 
has to make great bounds to clear them. Bravo, 
old boy! we must get there before dark. There 
are brushwood brooms set out across the ice to 
mark the way, but who could keep them in sight 
in a driving smother like this? Peer’s own face 
is plastered white now, and he feels stunned and 
dazed under the lash of the snow. 




The Great Hunger 


235 


He has worked under the burning suns of Egypt 
—and now here. But the steel will on. The wave 
rolls on its way over all the world. 

If this snow should turn to rain now, it will mean 
a flood. And then the men will have to turn out 
to-night and work to save the dams. 

One more disaster, and he would hardly he able 
to finish within the contract time. And that once 
exceeded, each day’s delay means a penalty of a 
thousand crowns. 

It is getting darker. 

At last there is nothing to he seen on the way but 
a shapeless mass of snow struggling with bowed 
head against the storm, wading deep in the loose 
drifts, wading seemingly at haphazard—and trail¬ 
ing after it an indefinable bundle of white—dead 
white. Behind, a human being drags along, hold¬ 
ing on for dear life to the rings on the sleigh. It 
is the post-boy from the last stage. 

At last they were groping their way in the dark¬ 
ness towards the shore, where the electric lights 
of the station showed faintly through the snow- 
fog. And hardly had Peer got out of the sleigh 
before the snow stopped suddenly, and the daz, 
zling electric suns shone over the place, with the 
workmen’s barracks, the assistants’ quarters, the 
offices, and his own little plank-built house. Two 
of the engineers came out to meet him, and saluted 
respectfully. 

“Well, how is everything getting on?” 




236 


The Great Hunger 


The greybeard answered: “The men have 
struck work to-day/’ 

“Struck? What for?” 

‘ ‘ They want ns to take back the machinist that 
was dismissed the other day for drunkenness.” 

Peer shook the snow from his fur coat, took his 
bag, and walked over to the building, the others 
following. “Then we’ll have to take him back,” 
he said. “We can’t afford a strike now.” 

A couple of days later Peer was lying in bed, 
when the post-bag was brought in. He shook the 
letters out over the coverlet, and caught sight of 
one from Klaus Brock. 

What was this? Why did his hand tremble as 
he took it up? Of course it was only one of Klaus’s 
ordinary friendly letters 0 

Dear Friend, —This is a hard letter to write. 
But I do hope you have taken my advice and got 
some of your money at any rate over to Norway. 
Well, to be as brief as possible! Ferdinand Holm 
has decamped, or is in prison, or possibly worse— 
you know well enough it’s no good asking ques¬ 
tions in a country like this when a big man sud¬ 
denly disappears. He had made enemies in the 
highest places; he was playing a dangerous game 
—and this is the end of it. 

You know what it means when a business goes 
into liquidation out here, and no strong man on 




The Great Hunger 


237 


the spot to look after things. We Europeans can 
whistle for our share. 

You’ll take it coolly, I know. I’ve lost every 
penny I had—but you’ve still got your place over 
there and the workshops. And you’re the sort of 
fellow to make twice as much next time, or I don’t 
know you. I hope the Besna barrage is to be a 
success. 

Yours ever, 

Klaus Brock;. 

P.S.—Of course you’ll understand that now my 
friend has been thrown overboard it will very 
likely be my turn next. But I can’t leave now—to 
try would rouse suspicion at once. We foreigners 
have some difficult balancing to do, to escape a 
fall. Well, if by chance you don’t hear from me 
again, you ’ll know something has happened! 

Outside, the water was streaming down the 
channels into the fall. Peer lay still for a while, 
only one knee moving up and down beneath the 
clothes. He thought of his two friends. And he 
thought that he was now a poor man—and that the 
greater part of the burden of the security would 
fall now on old Lorentz D. Uthoug. 

Clearly, Fate has other business on hand than 
making things easy for you, Peer. You must fight 
your fight out single-handed. 




Chapter XI 


One evening in the late antnmn Merle was sitting 
at home waiting for her husband. He had been 
away for several weeks, so it was only natural that 
she should make a little festivity of his return. 
The lamps were lit in all the rooms, wood fires 
were crackling in all the stoves, the cook was busy 
with his favourite dishes, and little Louise, now 
five years old, had on her blue velvet frock. She 
was sitting on the floor, nursing two dolls, and 
chattering to them. i1 Mind you’re a good girl 
now, Josephine. Your grandpa will be here di¬ 
rectly. ’ 9 Merle looked in through the kitchen door: 
“Have you brought up the claret, Bertha? That’s 
right. You’d better put it near the stove to 
warm. ’ ’ Then she went round all the rooms again. 
The two youngest children were in bed—was there 
anything more to be done? 

It would be an hour at least before he could be 
here, yet she could not help listening all the time 
for the sound of wheels. But she had not finished 
yet. She hurried up to the bathroom, turned on 
the hot water, undressed, and put on an oilskin 
cap to keep her hair dry, and soon she was splash¬ 
ing about with soap and sponge. Why not make 
238 




The Great Hunger 


239 


herself as attractive as she could, even if things 
did look dark for them just now? 

A little stream of talk went on in her brain. 
Strange that one’s body could be so great a pleas¬ 
ure to another. Here he kissed you—and here— 
and here—and often he seemed beside himself with 
joy. And do you remember—that time? You held 
back and were cold often—perhaps too often—is 
it too late now? Ah! he has other things to think 
of now. The time is gone by when you could be 
comfort enough to him in all troubles. But is it 
quite gone by ? Oh yes; last time he came home, 
he hardly seemed to notice that we had a new lit¬ 
tle girl, that he had never seen before. Well, no 
doubt it must be so. He did not complain, and 
he was calm and quiet, but his mind was full of 
a whole world of serious things, a world where 
there was no room for wife and children. Will 
it be the same this evening again? Will he notice 
that you have dressed so carefully to please him? 
Will it be a joy to him any more to feel his arms 
around you ? 

She stood in front of the big, white-framed mir¬ 
ror, and looked critically at herself. No, she was 
no longer young as she had been. The red in her 
cheeks had faded a little these last few years, 
and there were one or two wrinkles that could not 
be hidden. But her eyebrows—he had loved to 
kiss them once—they were surely much as be¬ 
fore. And involuntarily she bent towards tha 




240 


The Great Hunger 


glass, and stroked the dark growth above her eyes 
as if it were his hand caressing her. 

She came down at last, dressed in a loose blue 
dress with a broad lace collar and blond lace in 
the wide sleeves. And not to seem too much 
dressed, she had put on a red-flowered apron to 
give herself a housewifely look. 

It was past seven now. Louise came whimper¬ 
ing to her, and Merle sank down in a chair by 
the window, and took the child on her lap, and 
waited. 

The sound of wheels in the night may mean the 
approach of fate itself. Some decision, some final 
word that casts us down in a moment from wealth 
to ruin—who knows? Peer had been to England 
now, trying to come to some arrangement with the 
Company. Sh!—was that not wheels? She rose, 
trembling, and listened. 

No, it had passed on. 

It was eight o’clock now, time for Louise to go 
to bed; and Merle began undressing her. Soon 
the child was lying in her little white bed, with a 
doll on either side. “Give Papa a tiss,” she bab¬ 
bled, 11 and give him my love. And Mama, do you 
think he’ll let me come into his bed for a bit to¬ 
morrow morning ? ’ ’ 

“Oh yes, I’m sure he will. And now lie down 
and go to sleep, there’s a good girl.” 

Merle sat down again in the room and waited. 
But at last she rose, put on a cloak and went out. 

The town lay down there in the autumn dark- 




The Great Hunger 241 

ness under a milk-white mist of light. And over 
the black hills all around rose a world of stars. 
Somewhere out there was Peer, far out maybe 
upon some country road, the horse plodding on 
through the dark at its own will, its master sitting 
with bowed head, brooding. 

“Help us, Thou above—and help him most, he 
has had so much adversity in these last days.” 

But the starry vault seems icy cold—it has heard 
the prayers of millions and millions before—the 
hearts of men are nothing to the universe. 

Merle drooped her head and went in again to 
the house. 

It was midnight when Peer drove up the hill 
towards his home. The sight of the great house 
with its brilliantly lighted windows jarred so 
cruelly on his wearied mind that he involuntarily 
gave the horse a cut with his whip. 

He flung the reins to the stable-boy who had 
come out with a lantern, and walked up the steps, 
moving almost with a feeling of awe in this great 
house, as if it already belonged to someone else. 

He opened the door of the drawing-room—no 
one there, but light, light and comfort. He passed 
through into the next room, and there sat Merle, 
alone, in an armchair, with her head resting on 
the arm, asleep. 

Had she been waiting so long? 

A wave of warmth passed through him; he stood 
still, looking at her; and presently her bowed fig¬ 
ure slowly straightened; her pale face relaxed into 





242 


The Great Hunger 


a smile. Without waking her, he went on into the 
nursery, where the lights were still burning. But 
here the lights shone only on three little ones, 
lying in their clean night-clothes, asleep. 

He went back to the dining-room; more lights, 
and a table laid for two, a snowy cloth and flowers, 
and a single carnation stuck into his napkin—that 
must be from Louise—little Louise. 

At last Merle was awakened by the touch of his 
hand on her shoulder. 

‘ 4 Oh, are you there ? ’ 7 

“Good-evening, Merle!” They embraced, and 
he kissed her forehead. But she could see that his 
mind was busy with other things. 

They sat down to table, and began their meal. 
She could read the expression of his face, his voice, 
his calm air—she knew they meant bad news. 

But she would not question him. She would only 
try to show him that all things else could be en¬ 
dured, if only they two loved each other. 

But the time had passed when an unexpected 
caress from her was enough to send him wild with 
joy. She sat there now trembling inwardly with 
suspense, wondering if he would notice her—if he 
could find any comfort in having her with him, still 
young and with something of her beauty left. 

He looked over to her with a far-away smile. 
“Merle,” he asked, “what do you think your 
father is worth altogether?” The words came 
like a quiet order from a captain standing on the 
bridge, while his ship goes down. 




The Great Hunger 


243 


“Oh, Peer, don’t think abont all that to-night. 
Welcome home!” And she smiled and took his 
hand. 

“Thanks,” he said, and pressed her fingers ; but 
his thonghts were still far off. And he went on 
eating without knowing what he ate. 

“And what do you think? Louise has begun the 
violin. You’ve no idea how the little thing takes 
to it.” 

“Oh?” 

“And Asta’s got another tooth—she had a 
wretched time, poor thing, while it was coming 
through. ’ ’ 

It was as if she were drawing the children up to 
him, to show him that at least he still had them. 

He looked at her for a moment. “Merle, you 
ought never to have married me. It would have 
been better for you and for your people too.” 

“Oh, nonsense, Peer—you know you’ll be able 
to make it all right again.” 

They went up to bed, and undressed slowly. 
“He hasn’t noticed me yet,” thought Merle. 

And she laughed a little, and said, “I was sitting 
thinking this evening of the first day we met. I 
suppose you never think of it now?” 

He turned round, half undressed, and looked at 
her. Her lively tone fell strangely on his ears. 
“She does not ask how I have got on, or how 
things are going, ’ ’ he thought. But as he went on 
looking at her he began at last to see through her 
smile to the anxious heart beneath. 




244 


The Great Hunger 


Ah, yes; he remembered well that far-off sum¬ 
mer when life had been a holiday in the hills, and 
a girl making coffee over a fire had smiled at him 
for the first time. Amd he remembered the first 
sun-red night of his love on the shining lake-mir¬ 
ror, when his heart was filled with the rush of a 
great anthem to heaven and earth. 

She stood there still. He had her yet. But for 
the first time in their lives she came to him now 
humbly, begging him to make the best of her as 
she was. 

An unspeakable warmth began to flow through 
his heavy heart. But he did not rush to embrace 
her and whirl her off in a storm of passionate de¬ 
light. He stood still, staring before him, and, 
drawing himself up, swore to himself with fast- 
closed lips that he would, he would trample a way 
through, and save things for them both, even yet. 

The lights were put out, and soon they lay in 
their separate beds, breathing heavily in the dark. 
Peer stretched himself out, with his face up, think¬ 
ing, with closed eyes. He was hunting in the dark 
for some way to save his dear ones. And Merle 
lay so long waiting for one caress from him that 
at last she had to draw out her handkerchief and 
press it over her eyes, while her body shook with 
a noiseless sobbing. 




Chapter XII 


Old Lorentz D. Uthoug rarely visited his rich sis¬ 
ter at Bruseth, but to-day he had taken his weary 
way up there, and the two masterful old folks sat 
now facing each other. 

(1 So you ’ve managed to find your way up here ? ’’ 
said Aunt Marit, throwing out her ample bosom 
and rubbing her knees like a man. 

“Why, yes—I thought I’d like to see how you 
were getting on,” said Uthoug, squaring his broad 
shoulders. 

“Quite well, thanks. Having no son-in-law, I’m 
not likely to go bankrupt, I daresay.” 

“I’m not bankrupt, either,” said old Uthoug, 
fixing his red eyes on her face. 

“Perhaps not. But what about him?” 

“Neither is he. He’ll be a rich man before very 
long.” 

‘ ‘ He!—rich! Did you say rich ? ’ ’ 

“Before a year’s out,” answered the old man 
calmly. “But you’ll have to help.” 

“I!” Aunt Marit shifted her chair backwards, 
gaping. “I, did you say? Ha-ha-ha! Just tell 
me, how many hundreds of thousands did he lose 
over that ditch or drain or whatever it was?” 

“He was six months behind time in finishing it, 


245 




246 


The Great Hunger 


I know. But the Company agreed to halve the 
forfeit for delay when they’d seen what a master¬ 
piece the work was. ’ ’ 

“Ah, yes—and what about the contractors, 
whom he couldn’t pay, I hear!” 

“He’s paid them all in full now. The Bank 
arranged things. ’ ’ 

“I see. After you and he had mortaged every 
stick and rag you had in the world. Yes, indeed— 
you deserve a good whipping, the pair of you!” 

Uthoug stroked his beard. “From a financial 
point of view the thing wasn’t a success for him. 
I’ll admit. But I can show you here what the en¬ 
gineering people say about it in the technical pa¬ 
pers. Here’s an article with pictures of him and 
of the barrage.” 

“Well! he’d better keep his family on pictures 
in the papers then,” said the widow, paying no 
attention to the paper he offered. 

“He’ll soon be on top again,” said her brother, 
putting the papers back in his pocket. He sat 
there in front of her quite unruffled. He would let 
people see that he was not the man to be crushed 
by a reverse; that there were other things he val¬ 
ued more than money. 

6 ‘ Soon be on top ! ’ ’ repeated Aunt Marit. ‘ 1 Has 
he got round you again with some nonsense!” 

“He’s invented a new mowing machine. It’s 
nearly finished. And the experts say it will be 
worth a million.” 

“Ho! and you want to come over me with a tale 




The Great Hunger 247 

like that?” The widow shifted her chair a little 
farther back. 

“You must help us to carry on through this 
year—both of us. If you will stand security for 
thirty thousand, the bank . . .” 

Aunt Marit of Bruseth slapped her knees em¬ 
phatically. “I’ll do nothing of the sort!” 

“For twenty thousand, then?” 

“Not for twenty pence!” 

Lorentz Uthoug fixed his gaze on his sister’s 
face; his red eyes began to glow. 

“You’ll have to do it, Marit,” he said calmly. 
He took a pipe from his pocket and set to work to 
fill and light it. 

The two sat for a while looking at each other, 
each on the alert for fear the other’s will should 
prove the stronger. They looked at each other so 
long that at last both smiled involuntarily. 

“I suppose you’ve taken to going to church with 
your wife now?” asked the widow at last, her eyes 
blinking derision. 

“If I put my trust in the Lord,” he said, “I 
might just sit down and pray and let things go to 
ruin. As it is, I’ve more faith in human works, 
and that’s why I’m here now.” 

The answer pleased her. The widow at Bruseth 
was no churchgoer herself. She thought the Lord 
had made a bad mistake in not giving her any 
children. 

“Will you have some coffee?” she asked, rising 
from her seat. 




248 


The Great Hunger 


“Now you’re talking sense,” said her brother, 
and his eyes twinkled. He knew nis sister and her 
ways. And now he lit his pipe and leaned back 
comfortably in his chair. 




Chapter XIII 


Once more Peer stood in his workroom down at 
the foundry, wrestling with fire and steel. 

A working drawing is a useful thing; an idea in 
one’s head is all very well. But the men he em¬ 
ployed to turn his plans into tangible models 
worked slowly; why not use his own hands for 
what had to be done? 

When the workmen arrived at the foundry in 
the morning there was hammering going on al¬ 
ready in the little room. And when they left in 
the evening, the master had not stopped working 
yet. When the good citizens of Ringeby went to 
bed, they would look out of their windows and see 
his light still burning. 

Peer had had plenty to tire him out even be¬ 
fore he began work here. But in the old days no 
one had ever asked if he felt strong enough to do 
this or that. And he never asked himself. Now, 
as before, it was a question of getting something 
done, at any cost. And never before had there 
been so much at stake. 

The wooden model of the new machine is finished 
already, and the castings put together. The whole 
thing looks simple enough, and yet—what a dis¬ 
tance from the first rough implement to this thing, 


249 




250 


The Great Hunger 


which seems almost to live—a thing with a brain 
of metal at least. Have not these wheels and axles 
had their parents and ancestors—their pedigree 
stretching back into the past? The steel has 
brought forth, and its descendants again in 
turn, advancing always toward something finer, 
stronger, more efficient. And here is the last stage 
reached by human invention in this particular 
work up to now—yet, after all, is it good enough? 
An invention successful enough to bring money 
in to the inventor—that is not all. It must be 
more; it must be a world-success, a thing to make 
its way across the prairies, across the enormous 
plains of India and Egypt—that is what is needed. 
Sleep? rest? food? What are such things when so 
much is at stake! 

There was no longer that questioning in his ear: 
Why? Whither? WThat then? Useless to ponder 
on these things. His horizon was narrowed down 
to include nothing beyond this one problem. Once 
he had dreamed of a work allied to his dreams of 
eternity. This, certainly, was not it. What does 
the gain amount to, after all, when humanity has 
one more machine added to it? Does it kindle a 
single ray of dawn the more in a human soul? 

Yet this work, such as it was, had now become 
his all. It must and should be all. He was fast 
bound to it. 

WThen he looked up at the window, there seemed 
to be faces at each pane staring in. “What? Not 
finished yet?” they seemed to say. “Think what 




The Great Hunger 


251 


it means if you fail!” Merle’s face, and the chil¬ 
dren’s : “Must we he driven from Loreng, out into 
the cold?” The faces of old Uthoug and his wife: 
“Was it for this you came into an honourable fam¬ 
ily? To bring it to ruin?” And behind them, 
swarming, all the town. All knew what was at 
stake, and why he was toiling so. All stared at 
him, waiting. The Bank Manager was there too— 
waiting, like the rest. 

One can seize one’s neck in iron pincers, and 
say: You shall! Tired? difficulties? time too 
short?—all that doesn’t exist. You shall! Is this 
thing or that impossible? Well, make it possible. 
It is your business to make it possible. 

He spent but little time at home now; a sofa in 
the workshop was his bed. Often Merle would 
come in with food for him, and seeing how pale 
and grey and worn out he was, she did not dare to 
question him. She tried to jest instead. She had 
trained herself long ago to be gay in a house where 
shadows had to be driven off with laughter. 

But one day, as she was leaving, he held her 
back, and looked at her with a strange smile. 

“Well, dear?” she said, with a questioning look. 

He stood looking at her as before, with the same 
far-off smile. He was looking through her into 
the little world she stood for. This home, this 
family that he, a homeless man, had won through 
her, was it all to go down in shipwreck? 

Then he kissed her eyes and let her go. 

And as her footsteps died away, he stood a mo 




252 


The Great Hunger 


ment, moved by a sudden desire to turn to some 
Power above him with a prayer that he might 
succeed in this work. But there was no such 
Power. And in the end his eyes turned once more 
to the iron, the fire, his tools, and his own hands, 
and it was as though he sighed out a prayer to 
these: “Help me—help me, that I may save my 
wife and children’s happiness.” 

Sleep? rest? weariness? He had only a year’s 
grace. The bank would only wait a year. 

Winter and spring passed, and one day in July 
he came home and rushed in upon Merle crying, 
“To-morrow, Merle! They will be here to-mor¬ 
row!” 

“Who?” 

“The people to look at the machine. We’re 
going to try it to-morrow.” 

“Oh, Peer!” she said breathlessly, gazing at 
him. 

“It’s a good thing that I had connections 
abroad,” he went on. “There’s one man coming 
from an English firm, and another from America. 
It ought to be a big business. ’ ’ 

The morrow came. Merle stood looking after 
her husband as he drove off, his hat on the back of 
his head, through the haze that followed the 
night’s rain. But there was no time to stand 
trembling; they were to have the strangers to 
dinner, and she must see to it. 

Out in the field the machine stood ready, a slen- 




The Great Hunger 253 

der, newly painted thing. A boy was harnessing 
the horses. 

Two men in soft hats and light overcoats came 
up; it was old Uthoug, and the Bank Manager. 
They stopped and looked round, leaning on their 
sticks; the results of the day were not a matter 
of entire indifference to these two gentlemen. Ah! 
here was the big carriage from Loreng, with the 
two strangers and Peer himself, who had been 
down to fetch them from the hotel. 

He was a little pale as he took the reins and 
climbed to his seat on the machine, to drive it him¬ 
self through the meadow of high, thick timothy- 
grass. 

The horses pricked up their ears and tried to 
break into a gallop, the noise of the machine be¬ 
hind them startling them as usual at first, but they 
soon settled down to a steady pace, and the steel 
arm bearing the shears swept a broad swath 
through the meadow, where the grass stood shin¬ 
ing after the rain. 

The two strangers walked slowly in the rear, 
bending down now and again to look at the stub¬ 
ble, and see if the shears cut clean. The tall man 
with the heavy beard and pince-nez was the agent 
for John Fowler of Leeds; the little clean-shaven 
one with the Jewish nose represented Harrow & 
Co. of Philadelphia. 

Now and again they called to Peer to stop, while 
they investigated some part of the machine. 

They asked him then to try it on different 






254 


The Great Hunger 


ground; on an uneven slope, over little tussocks; 
and at last the agent for Fowler’s would have it 
that it should be tried on a patch of stony ground. 
But that would spoil the shears? Very likely, but 
Fowler’s would like to know exactly how the 
shears were affected by stones on the ground. 

At last the trials were over, and the visitors 
nodded thoughtfully to each other. Evidently they 
had come on something new here. There were pos¬ 
sibilities in the thing that might drive most other 
types out of the field, even in the intense compe^ 
tition that rages all round the world in agricul¬ 
tural machinery. 

Peer read the expression in their eyes—these 
cold-blooded specialists had seen the vision; they 
had seen gold. 

But all the same there was a hitch—a little 
hitch. 

Dinner was over, the visitors had left, and Merle 
and Peer were alone. She lifted her eyes to his 
inquiringly. 

“It went off well then?” she asked. 

“Yes. But there is just one little thing to put 
right.” 

“Still something to put right—after you have 
worked so hard all these months?” She sat down, 
and her hands dropped into her lap. 

“It’s only a small detail,” he said eagerly, pac¬ 
ing up and down. “When the grass is wet, it 
sticks between the steel fingers above the shears 
and accumulates there and gets in the way. It’s 




The Great Hunger 


255 


the devil and all that I never thonght of testing it 
myself in wet weather. But once I’ve got that 
right, my girl, the thing will be a world-success.’’ 

Once more the machine was set np in his work¬ 
shop, and he walked around it, watching, spying, 
thinking, racking his brain to find the little device 
that should make all well. All else was finished, 
all was right, but he still lacked the single happy 
thought, the flash of inspiration—that given, a 
moment’s work would be enough to give this thing 
of steel life, and wings with which to fly out over 
the wide world. 

It might come at any moment, that happy 
thought. And he tramped round and round his 
machine, clenching his fists in desperation because 
it was so slow in coming. 

The last touch only, the dot upon an i, was want¬ 
ing. A slight change in the shape or position of 
the fingers, or the length of the shears—what was 
it he wanted? How could he sleep that night? 

He felt that he stood face to face with a diffi¬ 
culty that could have been easily solved had he 
come fresh to the work, but that his tortured brain 
was too worn out to overcome. 

But when an Arab horse is ready to drop with 
fatigue, then is the time when it breaks into a 
gallop. 

He could not wait. There were the faces at the 
window again, staring and asking: “Not finished 
yet?” Merle, the children, Uthoug and his wife, 
the Bank Manager. And there were his com- 




256 


The Great Hunger 


petitors the world over. To-day he was a length 
ahead of them, but by to-morrow he might be left 
behind. Wait? Rest? No! 

It was antnmn now, and sleepless nights drove 
him to a doctor, who prescribed cold baths, per¬ 
fect qniet, sleeping draughts, iron and arsenic. Ah, 
yes. Peer could swallow all the prescriptions— 
the one thing he could not do was rest or sleep. 

He would sit late into the night, prostrate with 
exhaustion, watching the dying embers of the 
forge, the steel, the tools. And innumerable sparks 
would begin to fly before his eyes, and masses of 
molten iron to creep about like living things over 
walls and floor.—And over by the forge was some¬ 
thing more defined, a misty shape, that grew in 
size and clearness and stood at last a bearded* 
naked demigod, with fire in one hand and sledge¬ 
hammer in the other. 

‘ 4 What? Who is that?” 

“Man, do you not know me?” 

“Who are you, I ask?” 

“I have a thing to tell you: it is vain for you to 
seek for any other faith than faith in the evolution 
of the universe. It will do no good to pray. You 
may dream yourself away from the steel and the 
fire, but you must offer yourself up to them at 
last. You are bound fast to these things. Out¬ 
side them your soul is nothing. God? happiness? 
yourself? eternal life for you? All these are noth¬ 
ing. The will of the world rolls on towards its 




The Great Hunger 


257 


eternal goal, and the individual is but fuel for the 
fire.” 

Peer would spring up, believing for a moment 
that someone was really there. But there was 
nothing, only the empty air. 

Now and again he would go home to Loreng, but 
everything there seemed to pass in a mist. He 
could see that Merle’s eyes were red, though she 
sang cheerily as she went about the house. It 
seemed to him that she had begged him to go to 
bed and rest, and he had gone to bed. It would 
be delicious to sleep. But in the middle of the 
night it was borne in upon him that the fault lay 
in the shape of the shears after all, and then there 
was no stopping him from getting up and hurrying 
in to the workshop. Winter has come round again, 
and he fights his way in through a snow-storm. 
And in the quiet night he lights his lamp, kindles 
the forge fire, screws off the blades of the shears 
once more. But when he has altered them and 
fixed them in place again, he knows at once that 
the defect was not in them after all. 

Coffee is a good thing for keeping the brain 
clear. He took to making it in the workshop for 
himself—and at night especially a few cups did 
him good. They were so satisfying too, that ho 
felt no desire for food. And when he came to 
the conclusion that the best thing would be to 
make each separate part of the machine over again 
anew, coffee was a great help, keeping him awako 
through many a long night. 






258 


The Great Hunger 


It began to dawn npon him that Merle and his 
father-in-law and the Bank Manager had taken to 
lurking about the place night and day, watching 
and spying to see if the work were not nearly done. 
Why in the devil’s name could they not leave him 
in peace—just one week more? In any case, the 
machine could not be tried before next summer. 
At times the workers at the foundry would be 
startled by their master suddenly rushing out 
from his inner room and crying fiercely: “No one 
is to come in here. I will be left in peace! ’ * 

And when he had gone in again, they would look 
at each other and shake their heads. 

One morning Merle came down and walked 
through the outer shops, and knocked at the door 
of her husband’s room. There was no answer; 
and she opened the door and went in. 

A moment after, the workmen heard a woman’s 
shriek, and when they ran in she was bending 
over her husband, who was seated on the floor, 
staring up at her with blank, uncomprehending 
eyes. 

“Peer,” she cried, shaking his shoulder—“Peer, 
do you hear? Oh, for God’s sake—what is it, my 
darling-” 

One April day there was a stir in the little town 
of Ringeby, and a stream of people, all in their best 
clothes (though it was only Wednesday), was mov¬ 
ing out along the fjord road to Lor eng. There 
were the two editors, who had just settled one of 




The Great Hunger 


259 


their everlasting disputes, and the two lawyers, 
each still intent on snatching any scraps of busi¬ 
ness that offered; there were tradesmen and arti¬ 
sans; and nearly everyone was wearing a long 
overcoat and a grey felt hat. But the tanner had 
put on a high silk hat, so as to look a little taller. 

Where the road left the wood most of them 
stopped for a moment to look up at Loreng. The 
great white house seemed to have set itself high 
on its hill to look out far and wide over the lake 
and the country round. And men talked of the 
great doings, the feasting and magnificence, the 
great house had seen in days gone by, from the 
time when the place had been a Governor’s resi¬ 
dence until a few years back, when Engineer Holm 
was in his glory. 

But to-day the place was up to auction, with 
stock and furniture, and people had walked or 
driven over from far around. For the bank man¬ 
agement felt they would not be justified in giving 
any longer grace, now that Peer Holm was lying 
sick in hospital, and no doctor would undertake 
to say whether he would ever be fit to work again. 

The courtyard was soon crowded. Inside, in the 
great hall, the auctioneer was beginning to put up 
the lots already, but most people hung back a lit¬ 
tle, as if they felt a reluctance to go in. For the 
air in there seemed charged with lingering mem¬ 
ories of splendour and hospitality, from the days 
when cavaliers with ruffles and golden spurs had 
done homage there to ladies in sweeping silk robes 





260 


The Great Hunger 


—down to the last gay banquets to which the fa¬ 
mous engineer from Egypt had loved to gather all 
the gentry round in the days of his prosperity. 

Most of the people stood on the steps and in 
the entrance-hall. And now and again they would 
catch a glimpse of a pale woman, dressed in black, 
with thick dark eyebrows, crossing the courtyard 
to a servant’s house or a storehouse to give some 
order for moving the things. It was Merle, now 
mistress here no longer. 

Old Lorentz D. Uthoug met his sister, the mighty 
lady of Bruseth, on the steps. She looked at him, 
and there was a gleam of derision in her nar¬ 
rowed eyes. But he drew himself up, and said as 
he passed her, “You’ve nothing to be afraid of. 
I’ve settled things so that I’m not bankrupt yet. 
And you shall have your share—in full. ’ ’ 

And he strode in, a broad-shouldered, upright 
figure, looking calmly at all men, that all might see 
he was not the man to be crushed by a reverse. 

Late in the day the chestnut, Bijou, was put up 
for sale. He was led across the courtyard in a 
halter, and as he came he stopped for a moment, 
and threw up his head, and neighed, and from the 
stables the other horses neighed in answer. Was 
it a farewell? Did he remember the day, years 
ago, when he had come there first, dancing on his 
white-stockinged feet, full of youth and strength? 

But by the woodshed there stood as usual a lit¬ 
tle grey old man, busy sawing and chopping, as 
if nothing at all was the matter. One master left, 




The Great Hunger 


261 


another took his place; one needed firewood, it 
seemed to him, as mnch as the other. And if they 
came and gave him notice—why, thank the Lord, 
he was stone deaf. Thud, thud, the sound of the 
axe went on. 

A young man came driving up the hill, a florid¬ 
faced young man, with very blue eyes. He took off 
his overcoat in the passage, revealing a long black 
frock coat beneath and a large-patterned waist¬ 
coat. It was Uthoug junior, general agent for 
English tweeds. He had taken no part in his 
brother-in-law’s business affairs, and so he was 
able to help his father in this crisis. 

But the auction at Loreng went on for several 
days. 













BOOK III 













Chapter 1 


Once more a deep valley, with sun-steeped farms 
on the hillsides between the river and the moun¬ 
tain-range behind. 

One day about midsummer it was old Raastad 
himself that came down to meet the train, driving 
a spring-cart, with a waggon following behind. 
Was he expecting visitors? the people at the sta¬ 
tion asked him. ‘ ‘ Maybe I am,’ ’ said old Raastad, 
stroking his heavy beard, and he limped about 
looking to his horses. Was it the folk who had 
taken the Court-house? “Ay, it’s likely them,” 
said the old man. 

The train came in, and a pale man, with grey 
hair and beard, and blue spectacles, stepped out, 
and he had a wife and three children with him. 
‘ 4 Paul Raastad?” inquired the stranger. “Ay, 
that ’s me,’ 9 said the old man. The stranger looked 
up at the great mountains to the north, rising diz¬ 
zily into the sky. ‘ ‘ The air ought to be good here , 9 9 
said he. “Ay, the air’s good enough, by all ac¬ 
counts,” said Raastad, and began loading up the 
carts. 

They drove off up the hill road. The man and 
his wife sat in the spring-cart, the woman with a 
child in her lap, but a boy and a girl were seated 
26s 




266 


The Great Hunger 


on the load in the baggage-waggon behind Raastad. 
“Can we see the farm from here?” asked the 
woman, turning her head. “There,” said the old 
man, pointing. And looking, they saw a big farm¬ 
stead high up on a sunny hill-slope, close under 
the crest, and near by a long low house with a 
steep slate roof, the sort of place where the dis¬ 
trict officers used to live in old days. “Is that 
the house we are to live in?” she asked again. 
“Ay, that’s it, right enough,” said old Raastad, 
and chirruped to his horses. 

The woman looked long at the farm and sighed. 
So this was to be their new home. They were to 
live here, far from all their friends. And would it 
give him back his health, after all the doctors’ 
medicines had failed? 

A Lapland dog met them at the gate and barked 
at them; a couple of pigs came down the road, 
stopped and studied the new arrivals with pro¬ 
found attention, then wheeled suddenly and gal¬ 
loped off among the houses. 

The farmer’s wife herself was waiting outside 
the Court-house, a tall wrinkled woman with a 
black cap on her head. “Welcome,” she said, of¬ 
fering a rough and bony hand. 

The house was one of large low-ceiled rooms, 
with big stoves that would need a deal of firewood 
in winter. The furniture was a mixture of every 
possible sort and style: a mahogany sofa, cup¬ 
boards with painted roses on the panels, chairs 
covered with “Old Norse” carving, and on the 




The Great Hunger 


267 


walls appalling pictures of foreign royal families 
and of tlie Crucifixion. “Good Heavens!” said 
Merle, as they went round the rooms alone: “how 
shall we ever get used to all this ? ’ 9 

But just then Louise came rushing in, breath¬ 
less with news. “Mother—father—there are goats 
here!” And little Lorentz came toddling in after 
her: “Goats, mother,” he cried, stumbling over 
the doorstep. 

The old house had stood empty and dead for 
years. Now it seemed to have wakened up again. 
Footsteps went in and out, and the stairs creaked 
once more under the tread of feet, small, patter¬ 
ing, exploring feet, and big feet going about on 
grown-up errands. There was movement in every 
corner: a rattle of pots and pans in the kitchen; 
fires blazed up, and smoke began to rise from the 
chimney; people passing by outside looked up at 
it and saw that the dead old house had come to 
life again. 

Peer was weak still after his illness, but he could 
help a little with the unpacking. It took very lit¬ 
tle, though, to make him out of breath and giddy, 
and there was a sledge-hammer continually 
thumping somewhere in the back of his head. Sup¬ 
pose—suppose, after all, the change here does you 
no good? You are at the last stage. You’ve man¬ 
aged to borrow the money to keep you all here 
for a year. And then? Your wife and children? 
Hush!—better not think of that. Not that; think 
of anything else, only not that. 




268 


The Great Hunger 


Clothes to be carried upstairs. Yes, yes—and 
to think it was all to end in your living on other 
people’s charity. Even that can’t go on long. If 
you should be no better next summer—or two 
years hence?—what then? For yourself—yes, 
there’s always one way out for you. But Merle 
and the children? Hush, don’t think of it! Once 
it was your whole duty to finish a certain piece of 
work in a certain time. Now it is your duty to get 
well again, to be as strong as a horse by next year. 
It is your duty. If only the sledge-hammer would 
stop, that cursed sledge-hammer in the back of 
your head. 

Merle, as she went out and in, was thinking per¬ 
haps of the same thing, but her head was full of 
so much else—getting things in order and the 
household set going. Food had to be bought from 
the local shop; and how many litres of milk would 
she require in the morning? Where could she get 
eggs ? She must go across at once to the Baastads ’ 
and ask. So the pale woman in the dark dress 
walked slowly with bowed head across the court¬ 
yard. But when she stopped to speak to people 
about the place, they would forget their manners 
and stare at her, she smiled so strangely. 

“Father, there’s a box of starlings on the wall 
here,” said Louise as she lay in bed with her arms 
round Peer’s neck saying good-night. “And 
there’s a swallow’s nest under the eaves too.” 

“Oh, yes, we’ll have great fun at Baastad—just 
you wait and see.” 




The Great Hunger 


269 


Soon Merle and Peer too lay in their strange 
beds, looking ont at the luminous summer night. 

They were shipwrecked people washed ashore 
here. But it was not so clear that they were 
saved. 

Peer turned restlessly from side to side. He 
was so worn to skin and bone that his nerves 
seemed laid bare, and he could not rest in any 
position. Also there were three hundred wheels 
whirring in his head, and striking out sparks that 
flew up and turned to visions. 

Best? why had he never been content to rest 
in the days when all went well? 

He had made his mark at the First Cataract, 
yes, and had made big sums of money out of his 
new pump; but all the time there were the gnawing 
questions: Why? and whither? and what then? 
He had been Chief Engineer and had built a rail¬ 
way, and could have had commissions to build 
more railways—but again the questions: Why? 
and what then? Home, then, home and strike root 
in his native land—well, and had that brought him 
rest? What was it that drove him away again? 
The steel, the steel and the fire. 

Ah! that day when he had stepped down from 
the mowing machine and had been ensnared by 
the idea of improving it. WTiy had he ever taken 
it up? Did he need money? No. Or was the 
work at a standstill? No. But the steel would 
on; it had need of a man; it had taken him by 
the throat and said, “You shall!” 




270 


The Great Hunger 


Happiness? Best? Ah no! For, yon see, a 
stored-up mass of knowledge and experience turns 
one fine day into an army of evil powers, that lash 
yon on and on, unceasingly. Yon may stumble, 
yon may fall—what does it matter? The steel 
squeezes one man dry, and then grips the next. 
The flame of the world has need of fuel—bow thy 
head, Man, and leap into the fire. 

To-day you prosper—to-morrow you are cast 
down into a hell on earth. What matter? You 
are fuel for the fire. 

But I will not, I will not be swallowed up in the 
flame of the world, even though it be the only god¬ 
head in the universe. I will tear myself loose, be 
something in and for myself. I will have an im¬ 
mortal soul. The world-transformation that prog¬ 
ress may have wrought a thousand years hence— 
what is it to me? 

Your soul? Just think of all your noble feelings 
towards that true-born half-brother of yours—ha- 
ha-ha! Shakespeare was wrong. It’s the bastard 
that gets cheated. 

“Dearest Peer, do, for God’s sake, try to get to 
sleep . 9 ’ 

“Oh yes. I’ll get to sleep all right. But it’s so 
hot. ’ ’ He threw off the clothes and lay breathing 
heavily. 

“I’m sure you’re lying thinking and brooding 
over things. Can’t you do what the Swedish doc¬ 
tor told you—just try to think that everything is 
dark all round you.” 




The Great Hunger 


271 


Peer turns round, and everything around him 
is dark. But in the heart of that darkness waves 
arise, waves of melody, rolling nearer, nearer. It 
is the sound of a hymn—it is Louise standing 
playing, his sister Louise. And what peace—0 
God, what peace and rest! 

But soon Louise fades away, she fades away, 
and vanishes like a flame blown out. And there 
comes a roaring noise, nearer and nearer, grind¬ 
ing, crashing, rattling—and he knows now what it 
is only too well: it is the song of the steel. 

The roar of steel from ships and from railway- 
trains, with their pairs of yellow evil eyes, rush¬ 
ing on, full of human captives, whither? Faster, 
faster—driven by competition, by the steel demon 
that hunts men on without rest or respite—that 
hurries on the pulse of the world to fever, to 
hallucination, to madness. 

Crashing of steel girders falling, the hum of 
wheels, the clash of cranes and winches and chains, 
the clang of steam-ham m ers at work—all are in 
that roar. The fire flares up with hellish eyes in 
every dark corner, and men swarm around in the 
red glow like evil angels. They are the slaves of 
steel and fire, lashed onwards, never resting. 

Is this the spirit of Prometheus? Look, the will 
of steel is flinging men up into the air now. It is 
conquering the heavens. Why? That it may rush 
the faster. It craves for yet more speed, quicker, 
quicker, dizzier yet, hurrying—wherefore ?— 
whither? Alas! it knows not itself. 




272 


The Great Hunger 


Are the children of the earth grown so home¬ 
less! Do they fear to take a moment’s rest? Do* 
they dread to look inward and see their own empti¬ 
ness? Are they longing for something they have 
lost—some hymn, some harmony, some God? 

God? They find a bloodthirsty Jehovah, and an 
ascetic on the cross. What gods are these for mod¬ 
ern men? Religions history, not religion. 

“Peer,” says Merle again, “for God’s sake try 
to sleep.” 

“Merle, do yon think I shall get well here?” 

“Why, don’t yon feel already how splendid the 
air is ? Of course yon ’ll get well. ’ ’ 

He twined his fingers into hers, and at last the 
sound of Louise’s hymn came to him once more, 
lifting and rocking him gently till his eyes dosed. 




Chapter II 


A little road winds in among the woods, two 
wheel-tracks only, with a carpet of brown pine- 
needles between; bnt there are trees and the sky, 
quiet and peace, so that it’s a real blessing to walk 
there. It rises and falls so gently, that no one 
need get out of breath; indeed, it seems to go along 
with one all the time, in mere friendliness, whis¬ 
pering : ‘ ‘ Take it easy. Take your time. Have a 
good rest here.” And so on it goes, winding in 
among the tree-trunks, slender and supple as a 
young girl. 

Peer walked here every day. He would stop and 
look up into the tops of the fir trees, and walk on 
again; then sit down for a moment on a mossy 
stone; but only for a moment—always he was up 
again soon and moving on, though he had nowhere 
to go. But at least there was peace here. He 
would linger watching an insect as it crept along 
a fir branch, or listening to the murmur of the 
river in the valley far below, or breathing in the 
health-giving scent of the resin, thick in the warm 
air. 

This present life of his was one way of living. 
As he lay, after a sleepless night, watching the 
window grow lighter with the dawn, he would 

*73 




274 


The Great Hunger 


think: Yet another new day—and nothing that I 
can do in it. 

An d yet he had to get up, and dress, and go 
down and eat. His bread had a slightly bitter 
taste to him—it tasted of charity and dependence, 
of the rich widow at Brnseth and the agent for 
English tweeds. And he must remember to eat 
slowly, to masticate each mouthful carefully, to 
rest after meals, and above all not to think—not 
to think of anything in the wide world. After¬ 
wards, he could go out and in like other people, 
only that all his movements and actions were use¬ 
less and meaningless in themselves; they were 
done only for the sake of health, or to keep 
thoughts away, or to make the time go by. 

How had this come to pass? He found it still 
impossible to grasp how such senseless things can 
happen and no Providence interfere to set them 
right. Why should he have been so suddenly 
doomed to destruction? Days, weeks and months 
of his best manhood oozing away into empty noth¬ 
ingness—why? Sleeplessness and tortured nerves 
drove him to do things that his will disowned; he 
would storm at his wife and children if a heel so 
much as scraped on the floor, and the remorse that 
followed, sometimes ending in childish tears, did 
10 good, for the next time the same thing, or worse, 
would happen again. This was the burden of his 
days. This was the life he was doomed to live. 

But up here on the little forest track he harms 
no one; and no racking noises come thrusting 




The Great Hunger 


27 5 


sharp knives into his spine. Here is a great peace; 
a peace that does a man good. Down on the grassy 
slope below stands a tumble-down grey barn; it re¬ 
minds him of an old worn-out horse, lifting its 
head from grazing to gaze at you—a lonely for¬ 
saken creature it seems—to-morrow it will sink to 
the ground and rise no more—yet it takes its lot 
calmly and patiently. 

Ugh! how far he has got from Raastad. A 
cold sweat breaks out over his body for fear he 
may not have strength to walk back again uphill. 
Well, pull yourself together. Rest a little. And 
he lies down on his back in a field of clover, and 
stares up at the sky. 

A stream of clean air, fresh from the snow, flows 
all day long down the valley; as if Jotunheim it¬ 
self, where it lies in there beneath the sky, were 
breathing in easy well-being. Peer fills his lungs 
again and again with long deep draughts, drinking 
in the air like a saving potion. ‘ ‘ Help me then, oh 
air, light, solitude! help me that I may be whole 
once more and fit to work, for this is the one and 
only religion left me to cling to.” 

High above, over the two mountain ranges, a 
blue flood stands immovable, and in its depths 
eternal rest is brooding. But is there a will there 
too, that is concerned with men on earth? You 
do not believe in it, and yet a little prayer mounts 
up to it as well! Help me—thou too. Who ? Thou 
that hearest. If Thou care at all for the miserable 
things called men that crawl upon the earth— 





276 


The Great Hunger 


help me! If I once prayed for a great work that 
could stay my hunger for things eternal, I repent 
me now and confess that it was pride and vanity. 
Make me a slave, toiling at servile tasks for food, 
so that Merle and the children be not taken from 
me. Hearest Thou? 

Does anyone in heaven find comfort in seeing 
men tortured by blind fortune? Are my wife and 
my children slaves of an unmeaning chance—and 
yet can smile and laugh? Answer me, if Thou 
hearest—Thou of the many names. 

A grasshopper is shrilling in the grass about 
him. Suddenly he starts up sitting. A railway- 
train goes screaming past below. 

And so the days go on. 

Each morning Merle would steal a glance at her 
husband’s face, to see if he had slept; if his eyes 
were dull, or inflamed, or calm. Surely he must 
be better soon! Surely their stay here must do 
him good. She too had lost faith in medicines, 
but this air, the country life, the solitude—rest, 
rest—surely there must soon be some sign that 
these were helping him. 

Many a time she rose in the morning without 
having closed her eyes all night. But there were 
the children to look after, the house to see to, and 
she had made up her mind to get on without a maid 
if she possibly could. 

“What has taken you over to the farm so much 
lately?” she asked one day. “You have been sit- 




The Great Hunger 


277 


ting over there with old Raastad for hours to¬ 
gether/ ’ 

“I—I go over to amuse myself and pass the 
time,” he said. 

“Do you talk politics?” 

“No—we play cards. Why do you look at me 
like that?” 

“You never cared for cards before.” 

“No; but what the devil am I to do? I can’t 
read, because of these cursed eyes of mine—and 
the hammering in my head. . . . And I’ve counted 
all the farms up and down the valley now. There 
are fifty in all. And on the farm here there are 
just twenty-one houses, big and little. What the 
devil am I to take to next?” 

Merle sighed. “It is hard,” she said. “But 
couldn’t you wait till the evening to play cards— 
till the children are in bed—then I could play with 
you. That would be better.” 

“Thank you very much. But what about the 
rest of the day? Do you know what it’s like to go 
about from dawn to dark feeling that every minute 
is wasted, and wasted for nothing? No, you can’t 
know it. What am I to do with myself all through 
one of these endless, deadly days? Drink myself 
drunk?” 

6 4 Couldn’t you try cutting firewood for a little ? ’ ’ 

“Firewood?” He whistled softly. “Well, 
that’s an idea. Ye—yes. Let’s try chopping fire¬ 
wood for a change.” 

Thud, thud, thud! 




278 


The Great Hunger 


But as he straightened his back for a breathing- 
space, the whirr, whirr of Raastad’s mowing ma¬ 
chine came to him from the hill-slope near by 
where it was working, and he clenched his teeth 
as if they ached. He was driving a mowing ma¬ 
chine of his own invention, and it was raining con¬ 
tinually, and the grass kept sticking, sticking— 
and how to put it right—put it right ? It was as if 
blows were falling on festering wounds in his head, 
making him dance with pain. Thud, thud, thud! 
—anything to drown the whirr of that machine. 

But a man may use an axe with his hands, and 
yet have idiotic fancies all the time bubbling and 
seething in his head. The power to hold in check 
the vagaries of imagination may be gone. From 
all sides they come creeping out in swarms, they 
swoop down on him like birds of prey—as if in 
revenge for having been driven away so often be- 
fore—they cry: here we are! He stood once more 
as an apprentice in the mechanical works, riveting 
the plates of a gigantic boiler with a compressed- 
air tube—cling, clang! The wailing clang of the 
boiler went out over the whole town. And now 
that same boiler is set up inside his head—cling- 
clang—ugh! A cold sweat breaks out upon his 
body; he throws down the axe; he must go—must 
fly, escape somewhere—where, he cannot tell. 
Faces that he hates to think of peer out at him 
from every corner, yapping out: “Heh!—what 
did we say? To-day a beggar—to-morrow a mad¬ 
man in a cell.” 




The Great Hunger 


279 


But it may happen, too, that help comes in the 
night. Things come back to a man that it is good 
to remember. That time—and that other. ... A 
woman there—and the one yon met in such a place. 
There is a picture in the Louvre, by Veronese: a 
young Venetian woman steps out upon the marble 
stairway of a palace holding a golden-haired boy 
by the hand; she is dressed in black velvet, she 
glows with youth and happiness. A lovers’ meet¬ 
ing in her garden! The first kiss! Moonlight and 
mandolins! 

A shudder of pleasure passes through his weary 
body. Bright recollections and impressions flock 
towards him like spirits of light—he can hear the 
rushing sound of their wings—he calls to them for 
aid, and they encircle him round; they struggle 
with the spirits of darkness for his soul. He has 
known much brightness, much beauty in his life— 
surely the bright angels are the stronger and must 
conquer. Ah! why had he not lived royally, amidst 
women and flowers and wine! 

One morning as he was getting up, he said: 
“Merle, I must and will hit upon something that’ll 
send me to bed thoroughly tired out.” 

“Yes dear,” she answered. “Do try.” 

“I’ll try wheeling stones to begin with,” he said. 
“The devil’s in it if a day at that doesn’t make a 
man sleep.” 

So that day and for many days he wheeled 
stones from some newly broken land on the hillside 
down to a dyke that ran along the road. 




280 


The Great Hunger 


Calm, golden autumn days; one farm above an¬ 
other rising up towards the crest of the range, all 
set in ripe yellow fields. One little cottage stands 
right on the crest against the sky itself, and it, 
too, has its tiny patch of yellow corn. And an 
eagle sails slowly across the deep valley from peak 
to peak. 

People passing by stared at Peer as he went 
about bare-headed, in his shirt-sleeves, wheeling 
stones. “Aye, gentlefolks have queer notions,’’ 
they would say, shaking their heads. 

“That’s it—keep at it,” a dry, hacking voice 
kept going in Peer’s head. “It is idiocy, but you 
are doomed to it. Shove hard with those skinny 
legs of yours; many a jade before you has had to 
do the same. You’ve got to get some sleep to¬ 
night. Only ten months left now; and then we 
shall have Lucifer turning up at the cross-roads 
once more. Poor Merle—she’s beginning to grow 
grey. And the poor little children—dreaming of 
father beating them, maybe, they cry out so often 
in their sleep. Off now, trundle away. Now over 
with that load; and back for another. 

“You, that once looked down on the soulless toil 
for bread, you have sunk now to something far 
more miserable. You are dragging at a load of 
sheer stupidity. You are a galley-slave, with 
calamity for your task-master. As you move the 
chains rattle. And that is your day.” 

He straightens himself up, wipes the sweat from 




The Great Hunger 


281 


his forehead, and begins heaving up stones into 
his harrow again. 

How long must it last, this life in manacles? 
Do you remember Job? Job? Aye, doubtless 
Jehovah was sitting at some jovial feast when he 
conceived that fantasy of a drunken brain, to let 
Satan loose upon a happy man. Job? His seven 
sons and daughters, and his cattle, and his calves 
were restored unto him, but we read nothing of 
any compensation made him for the jest itself. 
He was made to play court fool, with his boils 
and his tortures and his misery, and the gods 
had their bit of sport gratis. Job had his actual 
outlay in cattle and offspring refunded, and that 
was all. Ha-ha! 

Prometheus! Is it you after all that are the 
friend of man among the gods ? Have you indeed 
the power to free us all some day? When will you 
come, then, to raise the great revolt? 

Come, come—up with the barrow again—you 
see it is full. 

“Father, it’s dinner-time. Come along home,’* 
cries little Louise, racing down the hill with her 
yellow plaits flying about her ears. But she stops 
cautiously a little distance off—there is no know¬ 
ing what sort of temper father may be in. 

“Thanks, little monkey. Got anything good for 
dinner to-day ?” 

“Aha! that’s a secret,” said the girl in a teasing 
voice; she was beaming now, with delight at find- 




282 


The Great Hunger 


ing him approachable. 1 ‘ Catch me, father! I can 
run quicker than you can!” 

“I’m afraid I’m too tired just now, my little 
girl. ’ ’ 

‘ * Oh, poor papa! are you tired ? ’ ’ And she came 
up and took him by the hand. Then she slipped 
her arm into his—it was just as good fun to walk 
up the hill on her father’s arm like a grown-up 
young lady. 

Then came the frosts. And one morning the 
hilltops were turned into leaden grey clouds from 
which the snow came sweeping down. Merle stood 
at the window, her face grey in the clammy light. 
She looked down the valley to where the moun¬ 
tains closed it in; it seemed still narrower than 
before; one’s breath came heavily, and one’s mind 
seemed stifled under cold damp wrappings. 

Ugh! Better go out into the kitchen and set to 
work again—work—work and forget. 

Then one day there came a letter telling her 
that her mother was dead. 




Chapter III 


Dear Klaus Brock,— 

Legendary being! Cast down from Khedivial 
heights one day and np again on high with Kitch¬ 
ener the next. But, in Heaven’s name, what has 
taken you to the Soudan? What made you go and 
risk your life at Omdurman? The same old des¬ 
peration, I suppose, that you’re always complain¬ 
ing about. And why, of all things, plant yourself 
away in an outpost on the edge of the wilderness, 
to lie awake at nights nursing suicidal thoughts 
over Schopenhauer? You have lived without prin¬ 
ciples, you say. And wasted your youth. And are 
homeless now all round, with no morals, no coun¬ 
try, no religion. But will you make all this better 
by making things much worse ? 

You’ve no reason to envy me my country life, 
by the way, and there’s no sense in your going 
about longing for the little church of your child¬ 
hood, with its Moses and hymns and God. Well, 
longing does no harm, perhaps, but don’t ever try 
to find it. The fact is, old fellow, that such things 
are not to be found any more. 

I take it that religion had the same power on 
you in your childhood as it had with me. We were 
wild young scamps, both of us, but we liked going 
283 




284 


The Great Hunger 


to church, not for the sake of the sermons, hut to 
bow our heads when the hymn arose and join in 
singing it. When the waves of the organ-music 
rolled through the church, it seemed—to me at 
least—as if something were set swelling in my own 
soul, bearing me away to lands and kingdoms 
where all at last was as it should be. And when 
we went out into the world we went with some echo 
of the hymn in our hearts, and we might curse 
Jehovah, but in a corner of our minds the hymn 
lived on as a craving, a hunger for some world- 
harmony. All through the busy day we might 
bear our part in the roaring song of the steel, but 
in the evenings, on our lonely couch, another power 
would come forth in our minds, the hunger for the 
infinite, the longing to be cradled and borne up 
on the waves of eternity, whose way is past all 
finding out. 

Never believe, though, that you’ll find the church 
of your childhood now in any of our country 
places. We have electric light now everywhere, 
telephones, separators, labour unions and political 
meetings, but the church stands empty. I have 
been there. The organ wails as if it had the tooth¬ 
ache, the precentor sneezes out a hymn, the con¬ 
gregation does not lift the roof off with its voice, 
for the very good reason that there is no con¬ 
gregation there. And the priest, poor devil, stands 
up in his pulpit with his black moustache and 
pince-nez; he is an officer in the army reserve, and 
he reads out his highly rational remarks from a 




The Great Hunger 


285 


manuscript. But his face says all the time—“You 
two paupers down there that make up my congre¬ 
gation, you don’t believe a word I am saying; but 
never mind, I don’t believe it either.” It’s a 
tragic business when people have outgrown their 
own conception of the divine. And we—we are 
certainly better than Jehovah. The dogma of the 
atonement, based on original sin and the blood¬ 
thirstiness of God, is revolting to us; we shrug 
our shoulders, and turn away with a smile, or in 
disgust. We are not angels yet, but we are too 
good to worship such a God as that. 

There is some excuse for the priest, of course. 
He must preach of some God. And he has no 
other. 

Altogether, it’s hardly surprising that even 
ignorant peasants shake their heads and give the 
church a wide berth. What do they do on Sun¬ 
days, then? My dear fellow, they have no Sunday. 
They sit nodding their heads over a long table, 
waiting for the day to pass. They remind one of 
plough horses, that have filled their bellies, and 
stand snoring softly, because there’s no work to¬ 
day. 

The great evolutionary scheme, with its wonders 
of steel and miracles of science, goes marching on 
victoriously, I grant you, changing the face of the 
world, hurrying its pulse to a more and more 
feverish beat. But what good will it do the peas¬ 
ant to be able to fly through the air on his wheel¬ 
barrow, while no temple, no holy day, is left him 






286 


The Great Hunger 


any more on earth? What errand can he have np 
among the clouds, while yet no heaven arches 
above his soul? 

This is the burning question with all of us, with 
you in the desert as with us up here under the 
Pole. To me it seems that we need One who will 
make our religion new—not merely a new prophet, 
but a new God. 

You ask about my health—well, I fancy it’s too 
early yet to speak about it. But so much I will 
say: If you should ever he in pain and suffering, 
take it out on yourself—not on others. 

Greetings from us all. 

Yours, 

Peer Dalesman. 




Chapter IV 


Christmas was near, the days were all grey twi¬ 
light, and there was a frost that set the wall-tim¬ 
bers cracking. The children went about bine with 
cold. When Merle scrubbed the floors, they turned 
into small skating-rinks, though there might be 
a big fire in the stove. Peer waded and waded 
through deep snow to the well for water, and his 
beard hung like a wreath of icicles about his face. 

Aye, this was a winter. 

Old Raastad’s two daughters were in the dairy 
making whey-cheese. The door was flung open, 
there was a rush of frosty air, and Peer stood 
there blinking his eyes. 

“Huh! what smokers you two are!” 

“Are we now?” And the red-haired one and 
the fair-haired one both giggled, and they looked 
at each other and nodded. This queer townsman- 
lodger of theirs never came near them that he 
didn’t crack jokes. 

“By the way, Else, I dreamed last night that 
we were going to be married.” 

Both the girls shrieked with delight at this. 

“And Mari, you were married to the bailiff.” 

‘ 6 Oh my! That old creature down at Moen ? 9 9 

i ‘ He was much older. Ninety years old he was . 9 9 

287 




288 


The Great Hunger 


“Uf!—you’re always at your nonsense/’ said 
the red-haired girl, stirring away at her huge, 
steaming cauldron. 

Peer went out again. The girls were hardly out 
of their teens, and yet their faces seemed set 
already and stiff with earnestness. And whenever 
Peer had managed to set them laughing unawares, 
they seemed frightened the next minute at having 
been betrayed into doing something there was no 
profit in. 

Peer strode about in the crackling snow with his 
fur cap drawn down over his ears. Jotunheim it¬ 
self lay there up north, breathing an icy-blue cold 
out over the world. 

And he? Was he to go on like this, growing 
hunchbacked under a burden that weighed and 
bowed him down continually ? Why th e devil could 
he not shake it off, break away from it, and kick 
out bravely at his evil fate ? 

1 ‘Peer,” asked Merle, standing in the kitchen, 
“what did you think of giving the children for a 
Christmas present?” 

“Oh, a palace each, and a horse to ride, of 
course. When you’ve more money than you know 
what to do with, the devil take economy. And 
what about you, my girl? Any objection to a 
couple of thousand crowns’ worth of furs?” 

“No, but seriously. The children haven’t any 
ski—nor a hand-sleigh. ’ ’ 

“Well, have you the money to buy them? I 
haven’t.” 




The Great Hunger 


289 


* 6 Suppose you tried making them yourself ?” 

‘ ‘ Ski ? ’ ’ Peer turned over the notion, whistling. 
“Well, why not? And a sleigh? We might man¬ 
age that. But what about little Asta?—she’s too 
little for that sort of thing.” 

“She hasn’t any bed for her doll.” 

Peer whistled again. “There’s something in 
that. That’s an idea. I’m not so handless yet that 
I couldn’t-” 

He was soon hard at it. There were tools and a 
joiner’s bench in an outhouse, and there he worked. 
He grew easily tired; his feet tried constantly to 
take him to the door, but he forced himself to go 
on. Is there anything in the notion that a man 
can get well by simply willing it? I will, will, will. 
The thought of others besides himself began to 
get the upper hand of those birds of prey ravening 
in his head. Presents for the children, presents 
that father had made himself—the picture made 
light and warmth in his mind. Drive ahead then. 

When it came to making the iron ribbons for 
the sleigh runners he had to go across to the 
smithy; and there stood a cottar at work roughing 
horseshoes. Red glowing iron once more, and 
steel. The clang of hammer on anvil seemed to 
tear his ears; yet it drew him on too. It was long 
since last he heard that sound. And there were 
memories. 

“Want this welded, Jens? Where’s the borax? 
Look here, this is the way of it.” 

“Might ha’ been born and bred a smith,” said 




290 


The Great Hunger 


Jens, as he watched the deft and easy hammer- 
strokes. 

Christmas Eve came, and the grey farm-pony 
dragged up a big wooden case to the door. Peer 
opened it and carried in the things—a whole heap 
of good things for Christmas from the Ringeby 
relations. 

He bit his lips when he saw all the bags piled up 
on the kitchen table. There had been a time not 
long ago when Merle and he had loaded up a sledge 
at the Loreng storehouse and driven off with 
Christmas gifts to all the poor folk round. It was 
part of the season’s fun for them. And now— 
now they must even be glad to receive presents 
themselves. 

“Merle—have we nothing we can give away this 
year?” 

“I don’t know. What do you think?” 

“A poor man’s Christmas it’ll be with a ven¬ 
geance—if we’re only to take presents, and haven’t 
the least little thing to give away. ’ ’ 

Merle sighed. “We must hope it won’t happen 
to us again,” she said. 

“I won’t have it happen to us now,” he said, 
pacing up and down. “There’s that poor devil of 
a joiner down at Moen, with consumption. I’m 
going down there with a bit of a parcel to chuck 
in at his door, if I have to take your shift and the 
shirt off my back. You know yourself it won’t be 
any Christmas at all, if we don’t do something.” 

i ‘Well—if you like. I’ll see if we can’t find 




The Great Hunger 


291 


something among the children’s clothes that they 
can do without.’’ 

The end of it was that Merle levied toll on all 
the parcels from home, both rice and raisins and 
cakes, and made up little packets of them to send 
round by him. That was Merle’s way; let her 
alone and she would hit upon something. 

The snow creaked and crackled underfoot as 
Peer went off on his errand. A starry sky and a 
biting wind, and light upon light from the windows 
of the farms scattered over the dark hillsides. 
High above all, against the sky, there was one little 
gleam that might be a cottage window, or might be 
a star. 

Peer was flushed and freshened up when he came 
back into the warmth of the room. And a chorus 
of joyful shouts was raised when Merle announced 
to the children: “Father’s going to bath you all 
to-night. ’ ’ 

The sawed-off end of a barrel was the bathing- 
tub, and Peer stood in the kitchen with his sleeves 
rolled up, holding the naked little bodies as they 
sprawled about in the steaming water. 

Mother was busy with something or other in the 
sitting-room. But it was a great secret, and the 
children were very mysterious about it. “No, no,, 
you mustn’t go in,” they said to little Asta, who 
went whimpering for her mother to the door. 

And later in the evening, when the Christmas- 
tree was lit up, and the windows shone white with 
frost, there were great doings all about the sitting- 




292 


The Great Hunger 


room floor. Louise got her ski on and immediately 
fell on her face; Lorentz, astride of the new sleigh, 
was shouting “Hi, hi!—clear the course there 
and over in a corner sat little Asta, busy putting 
her baby to bed and singing it to sleep. 

Husband and wife looked at each other and 
smiled. 

“What did I tell your’ said Merle. 

Slowly, with torturing slowness, the leaden-grey 
winter days creep by. For two hours in the mid¬ 
dle of the day there is pale twilight—for two hours 
—then darkness again. Through the long nights 
the north wind howls funeral dirges—hu-u-u-u— 
and piles up the snow into great drifts across the 
road, deep enough, almost, to smother a sleigh and 
its driver. The days and nights come and go, mo¬ 
notonous, unchanged; the same icy grey daylight, 
and never a human soul to speak to. Across the 
valley a great solid mountain wall hems you in, 
and you gaze at it till it nearly drives you mad. 
If only one could bore a hole through it, and steal 
a glimpse of the world beyond, or could climb up 
to the topmost ridge and for a moment look far 
round to a wide horizon, and breathe freely once 
more. 

At last one day the grey veil lifts a little. A 
strip of blue sky appears—and hearts grow lighter 
at the sight. The snow peaks to the south turn 
golden. What? Is it actually the sun? And day 
by day now a belt of gold grows broader, comes 




The Great Hunger 


293 


lower and lower on the hillside, till the highest- 
lying farms are steeped in it and glow red. And 
at last one day the red flame reaches the Court¬ 
house, and shines in across the floor of the room 
where Merle is sitting by the window patching the 
seat of a tiny pair of trousers. 

What life and cheer it brings with it! 

“Mother—here’s the sun,” cries Louise joyfully 
from the doorway. 

“Yes, child, I see it.” 

But Louise has only looked in for a moment to 
beg some cake for Lorentz and herself, and be off 
again on her ski to the hill-slopes. i ‘ Thank you, 
mother—you’re a darling!” And with a slice in 
each hand she dashes out, glowing with health and 
the cold air. 

If only Peer could glow with health again! But 
though one day they might persuade themselves 
that now—now at last he had turned the corner— 
the next he would be lying tossing about in misery, 
and it all seemed more hopeless than ever. He 
had taken to the doctors ’ medicines again—arsenic 
and iron and so forth—and the quiet and fresh air 
they had prescribed were here in plenty; would 
nothing do him any good? There were not so 
many months of their year left now. 

And then? Another winter here? And living 
on charity—ah me! Merle shook her head and 
sighed. 

The time had come, too, when Louise should go 
to school. 




294 


The Great Hunger 


1 ‘ Send the children over to me—all three of 
them, if yon like,” wrote Annt Marit from 
Brnseth. No, thanks; Merle knew what that 
meant. Annt Marit wanted to keep them for good. 

Lose her children—give away her children to 
others? Was the day to come when that burden, 
too, would be laid upon them? 

But schooling they must have; they must learn 
enough at least to fit them to make a living when 
they grew up. And if their own parents could 
not afford them schooling, why—why then perhaps 
they had no right to keep them? 

Merle sewed and sewed on, lifting her head now 
and again, so that the sunlight fell on her face. 

How the snow shone—like purple under the red 
flood of sunlight. After all, their troubles seemed 
a little easier to bear to-day. It was as if some¬ 
thing frozen in her heart were beginning to thaw. 

Louise was getting on well with her violin. Per¬ 
haps one day the child might go out into the world, 
#nd win the triumphs that her mother had dreamed 
of in vain. 

There was a sound of hurried steps in the pas¬ 
sage, and she started and sat in suspense. Would 
he come in raging, or in despair, or had the pains 
in his head come back? The door opened. 

‘‘Merle! I have it now. By all the gods, little 
woman, something’s happened at last!” 

Merle half rose from her seat, but sank back 
again, gazing at his face. 

“I’ve got it this time, Merle,” he said again. 




The Great Hunger 


295 


“ And how on earth I never hit on it before—when 
it’s as simple as shelling peas!” 

He was stalking about the room now, with his 
hands in his pockets, whistling. 

“But what is it, Peer?” 

“Why, you see, I was standing there chopping 
wood. And all the time swarms of mowing ma¬ 
chines—nine million of them—were going in my 
head, all with the grass sticking fast to the shears 
and clogging them up. I was in a cold sweat—I 
felt myself going straight to hell—and then, in a 
flash—a flash of steel—it came to me. It means 
salvation for us, Merle, salvation.” 

“Oh, do talk so that I can understand a little 
of what you’re saying.” 

“Why, don’t you see—all that’s wanted is a 
small movable steel brush above the shears, to 
flick away the grass and keep them clear. Hang 
it all, a child could see it. By Jove, little woman, 
it’ll soon he changed times with us now.” 

Merle laid her work down in her lap and let her 
hands fall. If this were true! 

“I’ll have the machine up here, Merle. Making 
the brushes and fixing them on will be no trouble 
at all—I can do it in a day in the smithy here.” 

“What—you had better try! You’re just be¬ 
ginning to get a little better, and you want to spoil 
it all again!” 

“I shall never get well, Merle, as long as I have 
that infernal machine in my head balancing be¬ 
tween world-success and fiasco. It presses on my 




296 


The Great Hunger 


brain like a leaden weight, I shall never have a 
decent night’s sleep till I get rid of it. Oh, my 
great God—if times were to change some day— 
even for ns! Well! Do you think I wouldn’t get 
well when that day came! ’ ’ 

This time she let him take her in his arms. But 
when he had gone, she sat still, watching the sun 
sink behind the snow-ranges, till her eyes grew dim 
and her breath came heavily. 

A week later, when the sun was flaming on the 
white roofs, the grey pony dragged a huge pack¬ 
ing-case up to Raastad. And the same day a noise 
of hammer and file at work was heard in the 
smithy. 

What do a few sleepless nights matter now? 
And they are sleepless not so much from anxiety 
—for this time things go well—as because of 
dreams. And both of them dream. They have 
bought back Loreng, and they wander about 
through the great light rooms once more, and all 
is peace and happiness. All the evil days before 
are as a nightmare that is past. Once more they 
will be young, go out on ski together, and dine to¬ 
gether after, and drink champagne, and look at 
each other with love in their eyes. Once more—* 
and many times again. 

“Good-night, Merle.” 

“Good-night, Peer, and sleep well.” 

Day after day the hammering went on in the 
smithy. 

A few years back he could have finished the 




The Great Hunger 


297 


whole business in a couple of days. But now, half 
an hour’s work was enough to tire him out. It is 
exhausting work to concentrate your thoughts 
upon a single point, when your brain has long been 
used to play idly with stray fancies as they came. 
He found, too, that there were defects to be put 
right in the parts he thought were complete be¬ 
fore, and he had no assistants now, no foundry to 
get castings from, he must forge out each piece 
with his own hands, and with sorry tools. 

What did it matter? 

He began to discipline his brain, denying him¬ 
self every superfluous thought. He drew dark cur¬ 
tains across every window in his consciousness, 
save one—the machine. After half an hour’s work 
he would go back to bed and rest—just close his 
eyes, and rest. This too was discipline. Again 
he flooded all his mind with darkness, darkness, 
to save his strength for the half-hour of work next 
day. 

Was Merle fearful and anxious? At all events 
she said no word about the work that so absorbed 
him. He was excited enough as it was. And now 
when he was irritable and angry with the children, 
she did not even look at him reproachfully. They 
must bear it, both she and the children—it would 
soon be all over now. 

In the clear moonlight nights, when the children 
were in bed, the two would sometimes be seen wan¬ 
dering about together. They went with their arms 
about each other’s waists, talking loudly, laughing 




298 


The Great Hunger 


a great deal, and sometimes singing. People going 
by on the road would bear the laughter and sing¬ 
ing, and think to themselves: It’s either someone 
that’s been drinking, or else that couple from the 
Court-house. 

The spring drew on and the days grew lighter. 

But at the Hamar Agricultural Exhibition, 
where the machine was tried, an American com¬ 
petitor was found to be just a little better. Every¬ 
one thought it a queer business; for even if the 
idea hadn’t been directly stolen from Peer, there 
could be no doubt that his machine had suggested 
it. The principles adopted were the same in both 
cases, but in the American machine there was just 
enough improvement in carrying them out to make 
it doubtful whether it would be any use going to 
law over the patent rights. And besides—it’s no 
light matter for a man with no money at his back 
to go to law with a rich American firm. 

In the mighty race, with competitors the wide 
world over, to produce the best machine, Peer had 
been on the very point of winning. Another man 
had climbed upon his chariot, and then, at the last 
moment, jumped a few feet ahead, and had thereby 
won the prize. 

So that the achievement in itself be good, the 
world does notinquire too curiously whether it was 
honestly achieved. 

And there is no use starting a joint-stock com- 





The Great Hunger 


299 


pany to exploit a new machine when there is a bet¬ 
ter machine in the field. 

The steel had seized on Peer, and used him as a 
springboard. Bnt the reward was destined for 
another. 




Chapter V 


Herr Uthoug junior, Agent for English tweeds, 
stepped out of the train one warm day in July, 
and stood for a moment on the station platform 
looking about him. Magnificent scenery, certainly. 
And this beautiful valley was where his sister had 
been living for more than a year. Splendid air— 
and yet somehow it didn’t seem to have done his 
brother-in-law much good. Well, well! And the 
neatly dressed young gentleman set off on foot to¬ 
wards Raastad, asking his way from time to time. 
He wanted to take them by surprise. There had 
been a family council at Ringeby, and they had 
agreed that some definite arrangement must be 
made for the future of the sister and her husband, 
with whom things had gone so hopelessly wrong. 

As he turned up the by-road that led to the farm, 
he was aware of a man in his shirt-sleeves, wheel¬ 
ing a barrow full of stones. What? He thought— 
could he be mistaken? No—sure enough it was 
Peer Holm—Peer Holm, loading up stones and 
wheeling them down the hill as zealously as if he 
were paid for every step. 

The Agent was not the man for lamentations or 
condolences. 4 ‘Hullo!” he cried. ‘ 1 Hard at it, 
aren’t you? You’ve taken to farming, I see.” 

300 




The Great Hunger 


301 


Peer stood up straight, wiped his hands on his 
trousers, and came towards him. * ‘ Good heavens! 
how old he has grown!” thought Uthoug to him¬ 
self. But aloud he said, “Well, you do look fit. I'd 
hardly have known you again.” 

Merle caught sight of the pair from the kitchen 

window. “Why, I do believe-” she exclaimed, 

and came running out. It was so long since she 
had seen any of her people, that she forgot her 
dignity and in a moment had her arms round her 
brother’s neck, hugging him. 

No, certainly Uthoug junior had not come with 
lamentations and condolences. He had a bottle 
of good wine in his bag, and at supper he filled the 
glasses and drank with them both, and talked about 
theatres and variety shows, and gave imitations of 
well-known actors, till he had set the two poor 
harassed creatures laughing. They must need a 
little joy and laughter—ah! well he knew how they 
must need it. 

But he knew, too, that Merle and Peer were on 
tenterhooks waiting to know what the family had 
decided about their future. The days of their life 
here had been evil and sad, but they only hoped 
now that they might be able to stay on. If the help 
they had received up to now were taken from 
them, they could neither afford to stay here nor to 
go elsewhere. What then could they do ? No won¬ 
der they were anxious as they sat there. 

After supper he went out for a stroll with Peer, 
while Merle waited at home in suspense. She 





302 


The Great Hunger 


understood that their fate was being settled as she 
waited. 

At last they returned—and to her astonishment 
they came in laughing. 

Her brother said good-night, and kissed her on 
the forehead, and patted her arm and was kindness 
itself. She took him up to his room, and would 
have liked to sit there a while and talk to him; 
but she knew Peer had waited till they were alone 
to tell her the news that concerned them so nearly. 
“Good-night, then, Carsten,” she said to her 
brother, and went downstairs. 

And then at last she and Peer were sitting alone 
together, at her work-table by the window. 

“Well?” said Merle. 

“The thing is this, Merle. If we have courage 
to live at all, we must look facts in the face as they 
are.” 

“Yes, dear, but tell me ...” 

“And the facts are that with my health as it 
now is I cannot possibly get any employment. It 
is certain that I cannot. And as that is the case, 
we may as well be here as anywhere else.” 

“But can we stay on here, Peer?” 

“If you can bear to stay with a miserable 
bungler like me—that, of course, is a question.” 

i i Answer me—can we stay here ? ’ ’ 

“Yes. But it may be years, Merle, before I’m 
fit to work again—we’ve got to reckon with that. 
And to five on charity year after year is what I 
cannot and will not endure.” 




The Great Hunger 


303 


“But what are we to do, then, Peer? There 
seems to be no possible way for me to earn any 
money . 9 9 

“I can try, at any rate,” he answered, looking 
out of the window. 

“You? Oh no, Peer. Even if you could get 
work as a draughtsman, you know quite well that 
your eyes would never stand ...” 

“I can do blacksmith’s work,” he said. 

There was a pause. Merle glanced at him in¬ 
voluntarily, as if she could hardly believe her ears. 
Could he be in earnest? Was the engineer of the 
Nile Barrage to sink into a country blacksmith? 

She sighed. But she felt she must not dishearten 
him. And at last she said with an effort: “It 
would help to pass the time, I daresay. And per¬ 
haps you would get into the way of sleeping bet¬ 
ter.” She looked out of the window with tightly 
compressed lips. 

“And if I do that, Merle, we can’t stay on in this 
house. In fact a great box of a place like this is 
too big for us in any case—when you haven’t even 
a maid to help you. ’ ’ 

i ‘ But do you know of any smaller house we could 
take?” 

“Yes, there’s a little place for sale, with a rood 
or two of ground. If we had a cow and a pig, 
Merle—and a few fowls—and could raise a bushel 
or two of corn—and if I could earn a few shillings 
a week in the smithy—we wouldn’t come on the 
parish, at any rate. I could manage the little jobs 




304 


The Great Hunger 


that I’d get—in fact, pottering about at them 
would do me good. What do you say?” 

Merle did not answer; her eyes were turned 
away, gazing fixedly out of the window. 

“But there’s another question—about you, 
Merle. Are you willing to sink along with me into 
a life like that? I shall he all right. I lived in 
just such a place when I was a boy. But you! 
Honestly, Merle, I don’t think I should ask it of 
you.” His voice began to tremble; he pressed 
his lips together and his eyes avoided her face. 

There was a pause. “How about the money?” 
she said, at last. “How will you buy the place?” 

“Your brother has promised to arrange about a 
loan. But I say again, Merle—I shall not blame 
you in the least if you would rather go and live 
with your aunt at Bruseth. I fancy she’d be glad 
to have you, and the children too.” 

Again there was silence for a while. Then she 
said: “If there are two decent rooms in the cot¬ 
tage, we could be comfortable enough. And as you 
say, it would be easier to look after. ’ ’ 

Peer waited a little. There was something in 
his throat that prevented speech. He understood 
now that it was to be taken for granted, without 
words, that they should not part company. And 
it took him a little time to get over the discovery. 

Merle sat facing him, but her eyes were turned 
to the window as before. She had still the same 
beautiful dark eyebrows, but her face was faded 




The Great Hunger 305 

and worn, and there were streaks of grey in her 
hair. 

At last he spoke again. “And about the chil¬ 
dren, Merle.’’ 

She started. “The children—what about 
them?” Had it come at last, the thing she had 
gone in fear of so long? 

“Aunt Marit has sent word to ask if we will let 
your brother take Louise over to stay with her.” 

“No!” Merle flung out. “No, Peer. Surely 
you said no at once. Surely you wouldn’t let her 
go. You know what it means, their wanting to 
have her over there.” 

“I know,” he nodded. “But there’s another 
question: in Louise’s own interest, have we any 
right to say no ? ” 

“Peer,” she cried, springing up and wringing 
her hands, “you mustn’t ask it of me. You don’t 
want to do it yourself. Surely we have not come 
to that—to begin sending—giving away—no, no, 
no!” she moaned. “Do you hear me, Peer? I 
cannot do it.” 

“As you please, Merle,” he said, rising, and 
forcing himself to speak calmly. “We can think 
it over, at any rate, till your brother leaves to^ 
morrow. There are two sides to the thing: one 
way of it may hurt us now; the other way may 
be a very serious matter for Louise, poor thing.” 

Next morning, when it was time to wake the 
children, Peer and Merle went into the nursery 
together. They stopped by Louise’s bed, and stood 




806 


The Great Hunger 


looking down at her. The child had grown a great 
deal since they came to Raastad; she lay now with 
her nose buried in the pillow and the fair hair hid¬ 
ing her cheek. She slept so sonndly and securely. 
This was home to her still; she was safer with 
father and mother than anywhere else in the 
world. 

“Louise,” said Merle, shaking her. “Time to 
get up, dear.” 

The child sat up, still half asleep, and looked 
wonderingly at the two faces. What was it? 

“Make haste and get dressed,” said Peer. 

< ‘ Fancy! You ’re going off with Uncle Carsten to¬ 
day, to see Aunt Marit at Bruseth. What do you 
say to that?” 

The little girl was wide awake in a moment, and 
hopped out of bed at once to begin dressing. But 
there was something in her parents’ faces which 
a little subdued her joy. 

That morning there was much whispering among 
the children. The two youngest looked with won¬ 
dering eyes at their elder sister, who was going 
away. Little Lorentz gave her his horse as a keep¬ 
sake, and Asta gave her youngest doll. And Merle 
went about trying to make believe that Louise was 
only going on a short visit, and would soon be 
coming back. 

By dinner-time they had packed a little trunk, 
and Louise, in her best dress, was rushing about 
saying goodbye all round the farm, the harvesters, 
whom she had helped to drive in the hay, coming in 




The Great Hunger 307 

for a specially affectionate farewell. Her last visit 
was to Mnsin, the grey horse, that was grazing 
tethered behind the smithy. Musin was busy crop¬ 
ping the turf, but he just lifted his head and looked 
at her—she plucked a handful of grass, and offered 
it, and when he had disposed of that, she patted 
his muzzle, and he let her cling round his neck for 
a moment. 

“I’ll he sure to write,” she cried out to no one 
in particular, as she went back over the courtyard 
again. 

The train moved out of the station, taking with 
it Uthoug junior and Louise, each waving from 
one of the windows of the compartment. 

And Peer and Merle were left on the platform, 
holding their two youngest children by the hand. 
They could still see a small hand with a white 
handkerchief waving from the carriage window. 
Then the last carriage disappeared into the cut¬ 
ting, and the smoke and the rumble of the train 
were all that was left. 

The four that were left behind stood still for a 
little while, but they seemed to have moved un¬ 
consciously closer together than before. 





Chapter VI 


Some way up from the high-road there stands a 
little one-storeyed house with three small win¬ 
dows in a row, a cowshed on one side of it and a 
smithy on the other. When smoke rises from the 
smithy, the neighbours say: 4 4 The engineer must 
be a bit better to-day, since he’s at it in the smithy 
again. If there’s anything you want done, you’d 
better take it to him. He doesn’t charge any more 
than Jens up at Lia. ’ ’ 

Merle and Peer had been living here a couple of 
years. Their lives had gone on together, but there 
had come to be this difference between them: 
Merle still looked constantly at her husband’s face, 
always hoping that he would get better, while he 
himself had no longer any hope. Even when the 
thump, thumping in his head was quiet for a time, 
there was generally some trouble somewhere to 
keep him on the rack, only he did not talk about it 
any more. He looked at his wife’s face, and 
thought to himself: i ‘She is changing more and 
more; and it is you that are to blame. You have 
poured out your own misery on her day and night. 
It is time now you tried to make some amends.” 
So had begun a struggle to keep silence, to endure, 
if possible to laugh, even when he could have found 
308 




The Great Hunger 


309 


it in bis heart to weep. It was difficult enough, 
especially at first, but each victory gained brought 
with it a certain satisfaction which strengthened 
him to take up the struggle again. 

In this way, too, he learned to look on his fate 
more calmly. His humour grew lighter; it was 
as if he drew himself up and looked misfortune in 
the eyes, saying: “Yes, I know I am defence¬ 
less, and you can plunge me deeper and deeper 
yet; but for all that, if I choose to laugh you can¬ 
not hinder me.’ 9 

How much easier all things seemed, now that he 
looked no longer for any good to come to him, and 
urged no claims against anyone either in heaven 
or on earth. But when he was tired out with his 
work at the forge, there was a satisfaction in say¬ 
ing to his wife: “No, Merle, didn’t I tell you I 
wouldn’t have you carrying the water up? Give 
me the bucket.” “You?—you look fit for it, don’t 
you?” “Hang it all, am I a man, or am I not? 
Get back to your kitchen—that’s the place for a 
woman.” So he carried water, and his mood was 
the brighter for it, though he might feel at times 
as if his back were breaking. And sometimes, 
“I’m feeling lazy, to-day, Merle,” he would say. 
“If you don’t mind I’ll stay in bed a bit longer.” 
And she understood. She knew from experience 
that these were the days when his nightmare head¬ 
ache was upon him, and that it was to spare her 
he called it laziness. 

They had a cow now, and a pig and some fowls. 




310 


The Great Hunger 


It was not exactly on the same scale as at Loreng, 
but it had the advantage that he could manage it 
all himself. Last year they had raised so many 
potatoes that they had been able to sell a few 
bushels. They did not buy eggs any more—they 
sold them. Peer carried them down himself to 
the local dealer, sold them at market price, and 
bought things they might need with the money. 
Why not? Merle did not think it beneath her to 
wash and scrub and do the cooking. True enough, 
things had been different with them once, but it 
was only Merle now who ever had moments of 
dreaming that the old days might come back. 
Otherwise, for both him and her it was as if they 
had been washed ashore on a barren coast, and 
must try to live through the grey days as best 
they could. 

It would happen once in a while that a mowing 
machine of the new American type would be sent 
in by some farmer to the smithy for repairs. 
When this happened, Peer would shut his lips 
close, with a queer expression, look at the machine 
for a moment, and swallow something in his throat. 
The man who had stolen this thing from him and 
bettered it by a hairsbreadth was doubtless a mil¬ 
lionaire by now on the strength of it. 

It cost him something of an effort to take these 
repairs in hand, but he bowed his head and set to. 
Merle, poor girl, needed a pair of shoes. 

At times, too, he would turn from the anvil and 
the darkness within and come out into the doorway 




The Great Hunger 


311 


for a breath of air; and here he would look out 
upon the day—the great broad empty day. 

A man with a sledge-hammer in his hands in¬ 
stinctively looks np at the heavens. He has in¬ 
herited that instinct from his great ancestor, who 
brought down fire and thought to men, and taught 
them to rebel against God. 

Peer looked at the sky, and at the clouds, sweep¬ 
ing across it in a meaningless turmoil. Rebellion 
against someone up there ? But heaven is empty. 
There is no one to rebel against. 

But then all the injustice, the manifold iniquity! 
Who is to sit in judgment on it at the great day? 

Who? No one. 

What? Think of the millions of all kinds of 
martyrs, who died under the bloodiest torments, 
yet innocent as babes at the breast—is there to be 
no day of reparation for them? 

None. 

But there must be a whole world-full of victims 
of injustice, whose souls flit restlessly around, be¬ 
cause they died under a weight of undeserved 
shame—because they lost a battle in which the 
right was theirs—because they suffered and strove 
for truth, but went down because falsehood was 
the stronger. Truth? Right? Is there no one, 
then, who will one day give peace to the dead in 
their graves and set things in their right places? 
Is there no one? 

No one. 




312 


The Great Hunger 


The world rolls on its way. Fate is blind, and 
God smiles while Satan works his will upon Job. 

Hold yonr peace and grip your sledge-hammer, 
idiot. If ever your conscience should embrace the 
universe, that day the horror of it would strike you 
dead. Remember that you are a vertebrate ani¬ 
mal, and it is by mistake that you have developed 
a soul. 

Cling, clang. The red sparks fly from the anvil. 
Live out your life as it is. 

But there began to dawn in him a strange long¬ 
ing to be united to all those unfortunates whom 
fate had blindly crushed; to gather them together, 
not to a common lamentation, but to a common vic¬ 
tory. Not for vengeance, but for a song of praise. 
Behold, Thou eternal Omnipotence, how we requite 
Thy cruelty—we praise life: see how much more 
godlike we are than Thou. 

A temple, a temple for the modem spirit of 
man, hungry for eternity—not for the babbling of 
prayers, but for a hymn from man’s munificent 
heart sent pealing up to heaven. Will it come—* 
will it one day be built? 

One evening Peer came home from the post-of¬ 
fice apparently in high spirits. “Hi, Merle, I’ve 
got a letter from the Bruseth lady.” 

Merle glanced at Lorentz, who had instinctively 
come close to her, and was looking at his father. 

“From Bruseth? How is Louise getting on?” 
she asked. 




The Great Hunger 


313 


“You can see for yourself. Here’s the letter ,’ 9 
said he. 

Merle read it through hurriedly, and glanced at 
Lorentz once more. 

That evening, after the children had gone to 
bed, the father and mother sat up talking together 
in a low voice. 

And Merle had to admit that her husband was 
right. It would be selfish of them to keep the boy 
here, when he might be heir to Bruseth some day 
if they let him go. 

Suppose he stayed and worked here under his 
father and learned to be a smith! The black¬ 
smith’s day is over—factories do all the work now. 

And what schooling could he get away here in 
the country? Aunt Marit offered to send him to 
a good school.—And so the die was cast for him 
too. 

But when they went with the boy to see him off 
at the station, the mother’s handkerchief was at 
her eyes all the time, do what she would. 

And when they came home she had to lie down 
in bed, while Peer went about the place, humming 
to himself, while he got ready a little supper and 
brought it to her bedside. 

“I can’t understand how you can take it so 
easily,” she burst out. 

‘ ‘ Ho—no, ’ ’ he laughed a little oddly. ( ‘ The less 
said about that the better, perhaps.” 

But the next day it was Peer who said he felt 




814 


The Great Hunger 


lazy again and would lie still a bit. Merle looked 
at him and stroked his forehead. 

And the time went on. They worked hard and 
constantly to make both ends meet without help, 
and they were content to take things as they came. 
When the big dairy was started close by, he made 
a good deal of money setting up the plant, but 
he was not above sharpening a drill for the road- 
gangs either. He was often to be seen going down 
to the country store in a sleeved waistcoat with a 
knapsack on his back. He carried his head high, 
the close-trimmed beard was shading over into 
white, his face often had the strained look that 
comes from sleeplessness, but his step was light, 
and he still had a joke for the girls whom he met. 

In summer, the neighbours would often see them 
shutting up the house and starting off up the hill 
with knapsack and coffee-kettle and with little 
Asta trotting between them. They were gone, it 
might be, to try and recapture some memory of 
old days, with coffee in the open air by a picnic 
fire. 

In the autumn, when the great fields yellowed all 
the hillsides, Peer and Merle had a little plot of 
their own that showed golden too. The dimensions 
of things had shrunk not a little for these two. A 
bushel of corn was much to them now. It hit them 
hard if their potato-patch yielded a couple of meas¬ 
ures less than they had reckoned on. But the 
housewives from the farms near by would often 
look in on Merle to see how bright and clean she 




The Great Hunger 


315 


kept her little house; and now that she had no one 
to help her, she found time herself to teach the 
peasant girls something of cooking and sewing. 

But one habit had grown upon her. She would 
stand long and long by the window looking down 
the valley to where the hills closed it in. It was 
as if she were looking constantly for something 
to come in sight, something that should bring them 
better days. It was a kind of Sunday for her to 
stand there and look and wait. 

And the time went on. 




Chapter VII 


Dear Klaus Brock, 

I write to tell you of what has lately happened 
to us here, chiefly in the hope that it may he some 
comfort to yourself. For I have discovered, dear 
friend, that this world-sorrow of ours is something 
a man can get over, if only he will learn to see with 
his own eyes and not with those of others. 

Most men would say things have steadily gone 
from bad to worse with me, and certainly I shall 
not pretend to feel any love for suffering in itself. 
On the contrary, it hurts. It does not ennoble. It 
rather brutalises, unless it becomes so great that 
it embraces all things. I was once Engineer in 
charge at the First Cataract—now I am a black¬ 
smith in a country parish. And that hurts. I am 
cut off from reading because of my eyes, and from 
intercourse with people whose society would be a 
pleasure because there are no such people here. 
All this hurts, even when you’ve grown used to it 
—a good thing in itself it is not. Many times I 
have thought that we must have reached the very 
bottom of the inclined plane of adversity, but al¬ 
ways it proved to be only a break. The deepest 
deep was still to come. You work on even when 
your head feels like to split; you save up every 
316 




The Great Hunger 


317 


pin, every match; and yet the bread yon eat often 
tastes of charity. That hurts. You give up hop¬ 
ing that things may be better some day; you give 
up all hope, all dreams, all faith, all illusions— 
surely you have come to the end of all things. But 
no; the very roots of one ’s being are still left; the 
most precious thing of all is still left. What can 
that be, you ask? 

That is what I was going to tell you. 

The thing that happened came just when things 
were beginning to look a little brighter for us. 
For some time past my head had been less trouble¬ 
some, and I had got to work on a new harrow— 
steel again; it never lets one rest—and you know 
what endless possibilities a man sees in a thing 
like that. Merle was working with fresh courage. 
WTiat do you think of a wife like that? taking up 
the cross of her own free will, to go on sharing the 
life of a ruined man? I hope you may meet a 
woman of her sort one day. True, her hair is 
growing grey, and her face lined. Her figure is 
not so straight as once it was; her hands are red 
and broken. And yet all this has a soul of its own, 
a beauty of its own, in my eyes, because I know 
that each wrinkle is a mark left by the time when 
some new trouble came upon us, and found us to¬ 
gether. Then one day she smiles, and her smile 
has grown strained and full of sadness, but again 
it brings back to me times when both heaven and 
earth breathed cold upon us and we drew closer 
to each other for warmth. Our happiness and our 




318 


The Great Hunger 


sufferings have moulded her into what she now is. 
The world may think perhaps that she is growing 
old; to me she is only more beautiful than before. 

And now I am coming to what I was going to 
tell you. You will understand that it was not easy 
to send away the two children, and it doesn’t make 
things better to get letters from them constantly 
begging us to let them come home again. But we 
had still one little girl left, little Asta, who was 
just five. I wish you could have seen her. If you 
were a father and your tortured nerves had often 
made you harsh and unreasonable with the two 
elder ones, you would try—would you not?—to 
make it up in loving-kindness to the one that was 
left. Asta—isn’t it pretty? Imagine a sunburnt 
little being with black hair, and her mother’s beau¬ 
tiful eyebrows, always busy with her dolls, or 
fetching in wood, or baking little cakes of her own 
for father when mother’s baking bread for us all, 
chattering to the birds on the roof, or singing 
now and then, just because some stray note of 
music has come into her head. When mother is 
busy scrubbing the floor, little Asta must needs 
get hold of a wet rag behind her back and slop 
away at a chair, until she has got herself in a 
terrible mess, and then she gets smacked, and 
screams for a moment, but soon runs out and sings 
herself happy again. When you’re at work in the 
smithy, there comes a sound of little feet, and 
“Father, come to dinner”; and a little hand takes 
hold of you and leads you to the door. “Are you 




The Great Hunger 


319 


going to bath me to-night, father?” Or ‘‘ Here’s 
your napkin, father.” And though there might 
be only potatoes and milk for dinner, she would 
eat as if she were seated at the grandest banquet. 
“Aren’t potatoes and milk your favourite dish, 
father ? ’ ’ And she makes faces at you in the eager¬ 
ness of her questionings. At night she slept in a 
box at the foot of our bed, and when I was lying 
sleepless, it would often happen that her light, 
peaceful breathing filled me too with peace; and 
it was as if her little hand took mine and led me 
on to sleep itself, to beautiful, divine sleep. 

And now, as I come to the thing that happened, 
I find it a little hard to write—my hand begins to 
tremble. But my hope is that there may be some 
comfort in it for you too, as there has proved to 
be for Merle and me in the end. 

Our next neighbours here were a brazier and 
his wife—poor folks, like ourselves. Soon after 
we first came I went over to have a talk with him. 
I found him a poor wizened little creature, potter¬ 
ing about with his acids, and making a living as 
best as he could, soldering and tinning kettles and 
pans. “What do you want?” he asked, looking 
askance at me; and as I went out, I heard him bolt 
the door behind me. Alas! he was afraid—afraid 
that I was come to snatch his daily bread from 
him. His wife was a big-boned fleshy lump of a 
woman, insolent enough in her ways, though she 
had just been in prison for criminal abetment in 
the case of a girl that had got into trouble. 




320 


The Great Hunger 


One Sunday morning I was standing looking at 
some apple trees in bloom in bis garden. One of 
them grew so close to tbe fence that tbe branches 
hung over on my side, and I bent one down to smell 
the blossom. Then suddenly I heard a cry: 4 ‘Hi, 
Tiger! catch him!” and the brazier’s great wolf- 
dog came bounding down, ready to fly at my throat. 
I was lucky enough to get hold of its collar before 
it could do me any harm, and I dragged it up to 
its owner, and told him that if anything of the 
sort happened again I’d have the sheriff’s officer 
after him. Then the music began. He fairly let 
himself go and told me what he thought of me. 
“You hold your jaw, you cursed pauper, coming 
here taking the bread out of honest working peo¬ 
ple’s mouths,” and so on. He hissed it out, 
flourishing his arms about, and at last it seemed to 
me he was fumbling about for a knife or something 
to throw at my head. I couldn’t help laughing. 
It was a scene in the grand style between two 
Great Powers in the world-competition. 

A couple of days later I was standing at the 
forge, when I heard a shriek from my wife. I 
rushed out—what could be the matter ? Merle was 
down by the fence already, and all at once I saw 
what it was—there was Asta, lying on the ground 
under the body of a great beast. 

And then- Well, Aerie tells me it was I that 

tore the thing away from the little bundle of 
clothes beneath it, and carried our little girl home. 

A doctor is often a good refuge in trouble, but 




The Great Hunger 


321 


though he may sew up a ragged tear in a child's 
throat ever so neatly, it doesn't necessarily follow 
that it will help much. 

There was a mother, though, that would not let 
him go—that cried and prayed and clung about 
him, begging him to try once more if nothing could 
be done. And when at last he was gone, she was 
always for going after him again, and grovelled on 
the floor and tore her hair—could not, would not, 
believe what she knew was true. 

And that night a father and mother sat up to¬ 
gether, staring strangely in front of them. The 
mother was quiet now. The child was laid out, 
decked and ready. The father sat by the window, 
looking out. It was in May, and the night was 
grey. 

Now it was that I began to realise how every 
great sorrow leads us farther and farther out on 
the promontory of existence. I had come to the 
outermost point now—there was no more. 

And I discovered too, dear friend, that these 
many years of adversity had shaped me not in 
one but in various moulds, for I had in me the stuff 
for several quite distinct persons, and now the 
work was done, and they could break free from 
my being and go their several ways. 

I saw a man rush out into the night, shaking his 
fist at heaven and earthy a madman who refused 
to play his part in the farce any more, and so 
rushed down towards the river. 

But I myself sat there still. 




322 


The Great Hunger 


And I saw another, a puny creature, let loose; a 
humble, ashen-grey ascetic, that bent his head and 
bowed under the lash, and said: “Thy will be 
done. The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken 

away- ’ 9 A pitiful being this, that stole out into 

the night and disappeared. 

But I myself sat there still. 

I sat alone on the promontory of existence, with 
the sun and the stars gone out, and ice-cold empti¬ 
ness above me, about me, and in me, on every side. 

But then, my friend, by degrees it dawned on 
me that there was still something left. There was 
one little indomitable spark in me, that began to 
glow all by itself—it was as if I were lifted back 
to the first day of existence, and an eternal will 
rose up in me, and said: Let there be light! 

This will it was that by and by grew and grew 
in me, and made me strong. 

I began to feel an unspeakable compassion for 
all men upon earth, and yet in the last resort I 
was proud that I was one of them. 

I understood how blind fate can strip and plun¬ 
der us of all, and yet something will remain in us 
at the last, that nothing in heaven or earth can 
vanquish. Our bodies are doomed to die, and our 
spirit to be extinguished, yet still we bear within 
us the spark, the germ of an eternity of harmony 
and light both for the world and for God. 

And I knew now that what I had hungered after 
in my best years was neither knowledge, nor 
honour, nor riches; nor to be a priest or a great 




The Great Hunger 


323 


creator in steel; no, friend, but to build temples; 
not chapels for prayers or churches for wailing 
penitent sinners, but a temple for the human spirit 
in its grandeur, where we could lift up our souls 
in an anthem as a gift to heaven. 

I could never do this now. Perhaps there was 
nothing that I could do any more. And yet it 
seemed to me as I sat there that I had conquered. 

What happened then? Well, there had been a 
terrible drought all that spring—it is often so in 
this valley. The eternal north wind sent the dry 
mould sweeping in clouds over the whole country¬ 
side, and we were threatened with one of our worst 
years of scarcity if the rain didn’t come. 

At last people ventured to sow their corn, but 
then the frosts set in, and snow and sleet, and the 
seed froze in the earth. My neighbour the brazier 
had his patch of ground sown with barley—but 
now he would have to sow it again, and where was 
he to get the seed? He went from farm to farm 
begging for some, but people hated the sight of 
him after what had happened about Asta—no one 
would lend him any, and he had no money to buy. 
The boys on the roads hooted after him, and some 
of the neighbours talked of driving him out of the 
parish. 

I wasn’t able to sleep much the next night either, 
and when the clock struck two I got up. “ Where 
are you going?” asked Merle. “I want to see if 
we haven’t a half-bushel of barley left,” I said. 
“Barley—what do you want with barley in the 




324 


The Great Hunger 


middle of tlie night V 9 “I want to sow the brazier’s 
plot with it,” I said, “and it’s best to do it now, 
so that nobody will know it was me.” 

She sat up and stared at me. “What? His— 
the—the brazier’s ? ’ 9 

“Yes,” said I. “It won’t do ns any good, yon 
know, to see his bit of field lying bare all summer. ’ ’ 

“Peer—where are yon going?” 

“I’ve told yon,” said I, and went out. But I 
knew that she was dressing and meant to come 
too. _ , 

It had rained during the night, and as I came 
out the air was soft and easy to breathe. The 
morning still lay in a grey half-light with yellow 
gleams from the wind-clouds to the north. The 
scent of the budding birches was in the air, the 
magpies and starlings were up and about, but not 
a human soul was to be seen; the farms were 
asleep, the whole countryside was asleep. 

I took the grain in a basket, climbed over the 
neighbour’s fence and began to sow. No sign of 
life in the house; the sheriff’s officer had come 
over and shot the dog the day before; no doubt the 
brazier and his wife were lying sleeping, dreaming 
maybe of enemies all around, trying their best to 
do them harm. 

Dear friend, is there any need to tell the rest? 
Just think, though, how one man may give away 
a kingdom, and it costs him nothing, and another 
may give up a few handfuls of corn, and it means 
to him not only all that he has, but a world of 




The Great Hunger 


325 


struggle and passion before be can bring bis soul 
to make that gift. Do you tbink that is nothing? 
As for me—I did not do this for Christ’s sake, or 
because I loved my enemy; but because, standing 
upon the ruins of my life, I felt a vast responsibil¬ 
ity. Mankind must arise, and be better than the 
blind powers that order its ways; in the midst of 
its sorrows it must take heed that the god-like 
does not die. The spark of eternity was once 
more aglow in me, and said: Let there be light. 

And more and more it came home to me that it 
is man himself that must create the divine in 
heaven and on earth—that that is his triumph over 
the dead omnipotence of the universe. Therefore 
I went out and sowed the corn in my enemy’s field, 
that God might exist. 

Ah, if you had known that moment! It was as 
if the air about me grew alive with voices. It 
was as though all the unfortunates I had seen and 
known were bearing me company; more and more 
they came; the dead too were joined to us, an 
army from times past and long ago. Sister Louise 
was there, she played her hymn, and drew the 
voices all together into a choir, the choir of the 
living and the dead, the choir of all mankind. See, 
here are we all, your sisters and brothers. Your 
fate is ours. We are flung by the indifferent law 
of the universe into a life that we cannot order 
as we would; we are ravaged by injustice, by sick¬ 
ness and sorrow, by fire and blood. Even the hap¬ 
piest must die. In his own home he is but on a 




326 


The Great Hunger 


visit. He never knows but that he may be gone to¬ 
morrow. And yet man smiles and laughs in the 
face of his tragic fate. In the midst of his thral¬ 
dom he has created the beautiful on earth; in the 
midst of his torments he has had so much surplus 
energy of soul that he has sent it radiating forth 
into the cold deeps of space and warmed them with 
God. 

So marvellous art thou, O spirit of man! So 
godlike in thy very nature! Thou dost reap death, 
and in return thou sowest the dream of everlasting 
life. In revenge for thine evil fate thou dost fill 
the universe with an all-loving God. 

We bore our part in his creation, all we who 
now are dust; we who sank down into the dark 
like flames gone out;—we wept, we exulted, we felt 
the ecstasy and the agony, but each of us brought 
our ray to the mighty sea of light, each of us, from 
the negro setting up the first mark above the grave 
of his dead to the genius raising the pillars of 
a temple towards heaven. We bore our part, from 
the poor mother praying beside a cradle, to the 
hosts that lifted their songs of praise high up into 
boundless space. 

Honour to thee, 0 spirit of man. Thou givest a 
soul to the world, thou settest it a goal, thou art 
the hymn that lifts it into harmony; therefore turn 
back into thyself, lift high thy head and meet 
proudly the evil that comes to thee. Adversity 
can crush thee, death can blot thee out, yet art 
thou still unconquerable and eternal. 




The Great Hunger 


327 


Dear friend, it was thus I felt. And when the 
com was sown, and I went back, the sun was glanc¬ 
ing over the shoulder of the hill. There by the 
fence stood Merle, looking at me. She had drawn 
a kerchief forward over her brow, after the fash¬ 
ion of the peasant women, so that her face was in 
shadow; but she smiled to me—as if she, too, the 
stricken mother, had risen up from the ocean of 
her suffering that here, in the daybreak, she might 
take her share in the creating of God. . . . 




TRANSLATOR’S NOTE 

Pronunciation of Proper Names 

For the convenience of readers a few points in 
which Norwegian pronunciation differs from Eng¬ 
lish are noted below: 

The vowels a, e y and i in the middle of words 
are pronounced much as in Italian. 

aa = long o, as in “post” or “pole.” 

e final is sounded, as in German; thus Louise, 
Merle, etc. 

d final is nearly always elided; thus Raastad 
= Rosta’. 

g before e or i is hard; thus Ringeby, not 
Rinjeby. 

j = the English y; thus Bojer = Boyer, Jens = 
Yens. 

I before another consonant is sounded; thus 
HoJm, not Home. 

Currency 

The unit of currency in Norway is the crown 
(krone), which in normal conditions is worth 
something over thirteen pence, so that about eight¬ 
een crowns go to the pound sterling. Thus Peer 
Holm’s fortune in the Savings Bank represented 
about £100 in English money, and a million crowns 
is equivalent to about $260,000 in American 
money. 

To avoid encumbering the reader unnecessarily 
with the details of Norwegian currency, small 
amounts have been represented in this translation 
by their equivalents in English money. 

328 

























A 
























s « "o0 X 




P i>, 

*© o x . 



> „ V'* .TV" 4 o J ”o — 

,. •A'v,* A * ^ 








<=• A 

^VVV <0 J 

o^' ^ 1 8 « ^ V 0° N c *, V -0‘ J 

o0 N 


A- 



"b o^ 


X 0o x. 


1 





■ 


,, %, V N <V '©/ s **> ^ 

A, > .9* A? V' v s \J^ j 

V" *T ••• o ^ $> cT *- ® 

A 1 ,r> 




A A 




A 




A A 






A 


■A> y ^ A A oV * °* * 

^ ' /•> ^ V - -fc ,\J 


■ o 



'* 

-i ~b 

/- ..... -C *4* V 6 


V V*. A ^LlKs? ^ A -> 

Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 


jW 1996 

■^BBftftEEPER 

PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC. 
111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
14121 779-2111 


V 


viai iu^i i y i vvp, 

(412) 779-2111 










,\V 






> c 0 * 










+ 'X/Y/IVjSF v 

<?' .V, 

^ *> v. 

% * ^ * l 6 £> A 

1 t, * ' S A° > I g ' 0 * * ^ ,\ X 




/ A ^ ^ ^ ^ 
















c £/ /A •'~'\\\y> » \V ,/> 





\0 o 







r,.., >/* - • v°Y,.. > 




c S ^ 

** » , v> ^ 




A & ' ^ \ . V 

* A O /y / s s i0 

a\ t o N 0 ^ /* ^ , 



^ ' 0 » K * A 

♦ ^ % A c ° n 

























































